


because the night (belongs to lovers)

by Lord Vitya (ProtoDan)



Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU, Superman - All Media Types
Genre: (albeit briefly but still it's there because i have no self-control!!), Cohabitation, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Original Character(s), Porn with Feelings, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sharing a Bed, Temporary Character Death, Vampire Violence, Vampires, Violence, but i wont tag everyone, homoerotic vampire angst, other JL and Batfam folks chilling in the bg, p sure that counts as cruel and unusual punishment somewhere, slowish burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-26
Updated: 2017-12-03
Packaged: 2018-12-19 22:54:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 11
Words: 65,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11907906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProtoDan/pseuds/Lord%20Vitya
Summary: "Mister Kent," Alfred says, his voice so soft that Clark barely hears him over the noise of the street. "I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news, and I wanted to tell you before the papers do."Clark hesitates, a frown creasing his brow. "What's wrong?"Alfred sighs, the sound rattling through the phone. "I won't mince words, Mister Kent. Master Bruce..." He falters. "Master Bruce passed away this morning."





	1. Chapter 1

There's a heavy grey cast to the sky, threatening thunder even before the rainfall really begins. Clark Kent watches the first drops hit his window, idly turning over words in his head. His mind is, as ever, in about five places at once—here, at the Daily Planet, out there, on the streets of Metropolis (a man down below being mugged, two commuters furiously arguing who hit whom, a woman lamenting the loss of her bus pass, another woman calling her wife during lunch), out in the world at large (John is at a U.N. conference, Wally and Victor helping with damage control in the aftermath of an earthquake in California, Bruce is... heaven knows).  
It's nearly two thirds of the way through the afternoon when Clark remembers to eat—rather, when Lois comes to his desk to gently remind him by way of inviting him to lunch.  
"You really need to eat earlier than three one of these days," she tells him as they cross the street to the deli. She grins up at Clark, elbowing him in the ribs. "Mix it up a little, go get take-out at, say... quarter 'til three instead."  
Clark rolls his eyes. "Like you're any better."  
"I'll have you know I graze through the day, Mr. Comes-to-Work-with-a-Granola-Bar-Still-in-His-Mouth-and-Doesn't-Eat-Again-the-Rest-of-the-Work-Day," Lois counters. She lifts her handbag. "You wouldn't believe how many snacks I can fit in here."  
Clark glances at the bag, looking through it just long enough to see three bags of chips, a banana, some granola bars, and a bagel. He stares at her for a few seconds before following her inside the door. "I'm amazed you even need lunch with all that," he says with a grin.  
Lois flashes a quick, sharp smile, but as she opens her mouth to reply, Clark feels his phone going off. He holds up a hand apologetically, ducking back outside to take it.  
The caller ID reads A. Pennyworth. Clark answers immediately. "Hello?"  
"Mister Kent," Alfred says, his voice so soft that Clark barely hears him over the noise of the street. "I'm afraid I have some unfortunate news, and I wanted to tell you before the papers do."  
Clark hesitates, a frown creasing his brow. "What's wrong?"  
Alfred sighs, the sound rattling through the phone. "I won't mince words, Mister Kent. Master Bruce..." He falters. "Master Bruce passed away this morning."  
Clark's own heart stops for a horrible moment. "...what?"  
"I... found him," Alfred says, "on the stairs outside of his room. I..." He's silent for so long that Clark thinks the call's dropped.  
"Alfred?" he says gently.  
"I'm sorry, Mister Kent," Alfred says solemnly, his voice wavering. "I've had a difficult day." Clark hears him taking in a long, slow breath to compose himself. "Per Master Bruce's wishes, there won't be a typical viewing—though you and other friends of the family are more than welcome to come to the manor before the funeral. Heaven knows there are enough rooms to hold most of the Justice League."  
Clark swallows, but it doesn't make his throat feel any less dry. "Thank you, Alfred," he says. "That's... very kind."  
"It's not entirely selfless, sir," Alfred says dryly. "The manor is dreadfully quiet at the moment, and it's already rather maddening."  
"Do you want me to come by today?" Clark offers.  
"If you wish, sir. I certainly won't protest the company."  
Clark glances back towards the deli. "After work tonight," he promises. "If you need anything—"  
"I certainly won't hesitate to ask, Mister Kent," Alfred says, a smile in his voice. "I might ask that you help me notify the other members of the League. I've contacted the children, but if I'm to be completely honest, delivering this sort of news more than twice has begun to wear on me. I'm sure you understand."  
"I do," Clark says. "I'll contact the Watchtower for you."  
Clark imagines Alfred bowing his head slightly. "Thank you, sir. I suppose I shall see you tonight?"  
"You will." Through the window, Lois is giving Clark a look of growing concern. Clark holds up a finger, and she nods her understanding. "Anything you need me to bring by?"  
"I believe the manor is sufficiently stocked, thank you," Alfred says. "I look forward to seeing you, sir. I'm sorry that the circumstances aren't more kind."  
"Me too," Clark says, and Alfred hangs up.  
Clark stands on the sidewalk in silence, staring up at the clouds. Alfred would never lie to him—not about something this serious—and yet he can't bring himself to believe it. He doesn't know which thought troubles him more: that Bruce died in his own home, rather than out on the streets, or that he could simply be _gone_ like that. Clark won't hear that low growl calling him a reckless idiot again, won't watch him laugh with the boys, or see him slumped over the Watchtower console, asleep after  a week without rest. Something in his stomach lurches horribly, an ache and a nausea as deep as any he's felt from Kryptonite.  
When he finally pulls himself together enough to go back inside, Clark is soaked. Lois sits up, but he gestures for her not to get up. He slumps into the chair across from hers, thumbing a wrinkled napkin and trying to ignore the hollowness in his chest.  
"You're a mess, Clark," Lois says, her tone one of soft fondness, tinged with deep concern. "Is everything okay?"  
Clark opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out at first, his throat closed in on itself. He shakes his head. "I'm... I'm going to have to skip town," he says, wincing at how his voice breaks. "Probably for a couple of days. That was some very bad news."  
Lois frowns, and reaches across the table to rest her hand on Clark's. "I can give you a cover if you need to leave now," she says.  
Clark shakes his head. "You won't need to," he says. "The truth is just fine—I'm going to a funeral."  
"Oh, Clark..." Lois places both of her hands on Clark's, squeezing gently. "I'm so sorry. Do you mind—who—?"  
"Bruce." Saying it aloud, admitting to Bruce's death, is like driving a knife through his own gut. "His butler told me he found him collapsed somewhere in the house."  
Lois grimaces. She doesn't—can't—know the true nature of his relationship with Bruce; it hadn't been his place to tell Bruce's secrets. (And now, he realizes, it never will be.) She'd found their friendship strange, but never gave Clark too much grief for it. And now... one does not speak ill of the dead, he supposes.  
"I'm so sorry," she says again, her voice soft, as if she worries that by speaking too loudly she'll break his brittle composure. "Is there anything I can...?"  
Clark takes in a deep breath, letting it out through his nose. "Let Perry know I'm skipping town," he says, and lets himself smile a little, "and maybe bring some of your snickerdoodles to my apartment when I get back?"  
Lois grins. "Done," she says, patting his wrist. "Text me if you think of anything else while you're gone, okay? In the meantime, I'm paying for your lunch and you can just sit there and deal."  
Clark startles himself with a laugh, hanging his head as if in defeat. "Yes, ma'am."  
Lois reaches across the table to pat him on the head. "Good man. Now, lets get some food in you before you go to Gotham. I'm not going to let them poison you while you're trying to go to a funeral." 

* * *

The rest of their lunch passes in amiable silence, Clark finding it near impossible to strike up conversation, Lois unwilling to push him to speak. For that, he's grateful; there are times where even Superman has a hard time cracking a smile.  
They part ways outside the deli. Lois drags him down for a hug that's much tighter than a woman her size should be able to manage, kisses him on the cheek before wishing him well. Clark keeps a smile on his face as he watches her walk back to the Planet, but it fades once he turns around, casting about for an alleyway in which he can change. He has no desire to be alone for the amount of time it would take to catch a bus and walk to the manor, and so Superman takes to the sky, a streak of red cutting through the grey sky on a course straight to Gotham.  
He opens a comm to the Watchtower on the way. J'onn's low, calm voice answers. Thank God for that, Clark thinks; J'onn has one of the most reassuring demeanors of anyone he's ever known.  
"Superman," J'onn intones. "Is something amiss?"  
Clark takes in a breath, watching the streets rush by below him. "I got a call about an hour ago," he says. "Br—Batman... Batman is dead."  
J'onn is silent for several seconds. "You're certain?"  
"I'm going to Gotham right now," Clark says, "to visit the manor and to—to verify. The call came from Alfred, and I don't think he'd tell me anything like that, much less tell me to tell the whole League, unless he was positive, but..."  
"But it is always good to be sure," J'onn finishes. "That is wise."  
"Yes." Clark sighs. "I'll let you know either way."  
"Understood. Be well, Superman," J'onn says, and the line cuts out.  
Clark alights on one of the many balconies of Wayne Manor, shutting his eyes as he leans against the old stone. He can hear the whir of the air conditioning, the low rumble of a washing machine, and a single, steady heartbeat. He listens, his own heart catching, hoping—  
But it's Alfred who steps up to the window, one brow raised above tired eyes as he pulls it open. "There is a perfectly functional front door, sir," he says, but the ghost of a smile tugs at his lips. "Do come in. I've just started steeping a pot of tea."  
"Thank you, Alfred." Clark floats inside, the carpet muffling the sound of his boots against the floor. "Do you..." _know what happened,_ he nearly says, but the wound of Bruce's death feels almost too raw for him to touch; he can't imagine what it must be doing to the man who raised him. "Do you want to talk about it?"  
Alfred pauses, going still for a moment, and then his shoulders fall ever so slightly with a quiet sigh. "I suppose there's no avoiding it forever, hm?"  
Clark takes that as permission to properly broach the subject, and walks briskly for a few steps to meet Alfred's stride. "What happened to him?" he says gently.  
Alfred glances at him sidelong, then shakes his head. "I don't know for certain," he says. "And I doubt I ever will. I have my theories, of course, but... you know Master Bruce. His habits were not conducive to a long life by any stretch of the imagination." He looks ahead, into the empty hallway. "A cursory examination didn't tell me much," he continues. "Most of the injuries I could see were days old at least—and nothing that would have killed him. A slow-acting toxin from Poison Ivy, perhaps... but I sincerely doubt Master Bruce would want an autopsy to reveal his secrets, even from beyond the pale."  
Clark's chuckle at that is dry, humorless. It sounds hollow even in his own ears. "No," he agrees. "I don't think so either."  
They pass through hall after hall, each feeling more dusty and empty than the last. The sounds of their footsteps on the hardwood floor mask most of the ambient noise throughout the rest of the house, but Clark still can't help but strain his hearing, listening for the tell-tale hum of the Batmobile, or faint grunts of pain echoing from the cave, or that steady, unerring heartbeat Clark had learned so well.  
There's nothing.  
Alfred gestures for Clark to sit in one of the stools at the kitchen's island counter. Clark watches him as he procures twin mugs from the cupboard, placing each one on opposite sides of the island.  
"I assume you were able to contact the Watchtower?" Alfred asks, pouring milk into both mugs. Clark nods. "Good. Thank you, sir." He pours the tea in after, still steaming, and rests the pot between them before sitting down himself. "The funeral should be in two days," he says. He'll—" Alfred's voice breaks, barely, and he closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Do forgive me," he says as he passes the sugarbowl to Clark. "I'm sure you understand how difficult this is for me."  
"Of course," Clark says softly. "Take your time."  
Once Clark's spooned in as much sugar as he needs, Alfred takes the bowl back and stirs in a single spoonful. "He'll be buried beside his parents," he continues, staring down into the pale brown surface of his tea. "Again, per his wishes."  
Clark feels his heart tighten, and he can't even begin to fathom the hurt that Alfred must be enduring—first burying Bruce's parents, and now Bruce himself, a man who was at once his employer and his son. "I'm so sorry, Alfred," he murmurs.  
Alfred's smile is weary and kind. "As I said, Mister Kent," he says, "Master Bruce's habits were not conducive to a long life. I don't like to admit it, but this..." He hesitates, hand shaking as he lifts his mug to his lips. His sigh blows the steam back. "This was, I think, inevitable."  
And once again, silence falls, broken only by the hum of air through the ventilation, of spoons on porcelain, of their own ragged breaths and tired hearts. 

* * *

Coming to the mortuary was a mistake. Clark isn't made for sneaking—he never has been, and if it was a weakness to depend on Bruce to bend the shadows, then it was a weakness that only backfired when Bruce wasn't there, and Bruce was _always_ there.  
That isn't to say he didn't pick up a few tricks just watching the Batman work; Clark knows his way through a lock, and he manages to enter the building with relative ease. Moonlight pours onto the floor through stained glass, angels and saints kneeling in supplication as Clark passes them all by. The only sounds in the whole building are his own footsteps, his own breathing, his own heart.  
Still he dares to hope.  
There's no real way for him to know where they've put Bruce's cor—where they've put Bruce, and so Clark looks through the walls, skimming the still faces of others laid to rest. His eyes don't linger long out of respect, both for the dead and for their privacy, and at such a pace it doesn't take much time at all before he sees Bruce, lying inside a plain wooden coffin, healed fractures webbed across his bones, unbreathing and utterly still. Heart caught in his throat, Clark moves towards him, his thoughts a desperate chorus of _please, please, please_.  
Clark crosses the room, gingerly lifting the lid of the coffin. There he is, more like a doll than a man, eyes and mouth closed, hands folded over his chest. It's the most peaceful Bruce has ever looked. Clark can smell the embalming fluid, the makeup failing to bring back the color on his face.  
He closes the casket, his knees buckling beneath him. His chest shudders as he tries to breathe, tears streaking hot and wet down his cheeks as he finally allows himself to succumb to his own grief. 

* * *

Once he's managed to lock the building up again, Clark calls the Watchtower again to confirm the news, pushing down his sorrow long enough that he can actually speak.  
He stays at the manor that night, but he doesn't sleep. 

* * *

The funeral comes and goes, a surprisingly private affair for someone as well-known as Bruce Wayne. The core members of the Justice League all attend, of course—Diana doesn't leave Clark's side until the casket is lowered into the ground, her tears silent and dignified. She keeps her hand at his elbow, a constant and tangible reminder of her presence, and Clark will be forever grateful for her for this. (And for everything else she does, but right now, especially for this.)  
There's not much in the way of chatter afterwards—not many of them have cultivated any stories for why their secret identities might know one another, and so, in the end, it's just Clark, Alfred, the kids, and an open grave. Barbara, Cassandra, and other boys linger closer to Alfred, but Dick crosses the grass to Clark, rests a hand on his shoulder.  
They don't speak; they don't need to. All the words they could say are too obvious. Eventually, Dick sidles closer, and Clark instinctively lifts his arm and wraps it around Dick's shoulders.  
"You going back to Metropolis after this?" Dick asks, his voice soft.  
Clark sighs, glancing up at the sky. "I thought I'd stay in Gotham a couple more days," he says. "Try and help your family around the manor, that sort of thing."  
Dick looks up at him with a faint smile. "Thanks, Blue," he says.  
"It's the least I could do." Clark shoves his hand in his suit pocket, staring back down into the grave as if he can will Bruce back to life by staring at his casket. "What about you? Back to Blüdhaven?"  
"Nah," Dick says. He grins. "Alfred would never let me leave that soon." The grin fades almost as quickly as it came, and he follows Clark's gaze with a guarded expression. "Besides," he continues, "someone's gotta take the mantle up with him gone. I've done it before, so."  
Clark bows his head. "If you need help..."  
"I won't hesitate to call you, don't worry," Dick says, a little of the levity back in his voice. "I should be okay. He'd gotten things pretty quiet, before...." He swallows. "Gotham won't start getting uppity again for a bit unless they figure out what happened. And I'm not gonna let 'em."  
Clark grins at him then, wide and genuine. "I know you won't." 

* * *

Clark tries to stay in a hotel, but ends up cowed by the combined insistence of Alfred, Dick, Tim, and Barbara—as well as the grumbling acceptance and quiet approval of Damian and Cassandra—into sleeping in one of the manor's guest rooms. Alfred at least lets him help with some of the housework while Dick tries to sort through the details of Bruce's will. (Because, Clark thinks with an almost nauseous fondness, of course Bruce was prepared to die young, so much so that he had a full will written at forty.)  
He stays until that Sunday night the grim emptiness of the manor already lightened by the family's reminiscing; Dick and Alfred share stories over dinner, Alfred offers brief, airy anecdotes while Clark helps him clean, and it lifts the weight of loss just a little bit.  
An hour past sundown, Clark finishes hugging everyone goodbye, and walks out across the manor grounds. Distantly, he can hear the chatter of bats as they leave to hunt for the night, the call of an owl declaring its territory, the faraway clamor of Gotham's nighttime traffic. He walks across the grounds towards the twin concrete angels standing watch on a hilltop, head bowed as he pays his respects one last time before he goes back to Metropolis.  
The soil swells over the grave, unmarked until the third monument can be brought in. Clark shuts his eyes, kneeling in the fresh dirt with little concern for his pants. He opens his mouth, as if there's anything he could possibly say, and closes it shortly thereafter.  
Clark kneels there until the traffic has quieted, the owls have stilled, until his heart aches a little less. He stands, brushing the dirt from his knees, and glances back down at the soil. "Goodbye, old friend," he says.  
As he turns, Clark hears a faint scratching—quick, almost frantic rasps, like a trapped animal. He stops, listening more closely. The scratching continues, quicker and more desperate with each passing moment, and Clark realizes with a stunned horror that it's coming from below. He drops back down to a crouch, hands in the soil.  
A loud _thunk_ shakes the earth. Clark flinches backwards, but quickly rights himself before bending down and pressing his ear to the ground.  
From beneath the earth, he could swear he hears a voice, muffled but desperate, a wordless cry of terror that chills Clark down to his bones. The scratching and thumping increase in their intensity, rattling the ground under Clark's feet, and, barely pausing for thought,  Clark scrambles to push the soil aside. Something down there needs his help; he won't just sit there in the dirt.  
It takes little effort to dig through, super-strength and speed making quick work of the loose dirt. The scraping and thumping get louder and louder the harder he works—and three feet down, the ground bursts open, sending Clark careening backwards and slamming him into the earth.  
The wind knocked from his lungs for a second, Clark blinks away the dust as it settles around him, steadying himself. He squints at the shadows until they coalesce into a solid shape. Dark hair, pale skin, and wide, terrified blue eyes—  
Bruce lunges forward, grasping Clark by the front of his shirt in an unwavering iron grip.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce closes his eyes, still as a stone. He doesn't even breathe, and for a split second, Clark's heart seizes— "Four days," he echoes, his voice still rough. "God..." He runs a hand through his hair and leans against the dirt wall. "What happened to me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops this is starting to burn a little faster than I intended. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Clark grips Bruce's shoulders, heart thundering in his ears. Bruce's fists are balled so tight in Clark's shirt that his knuckles go white, his eyes wild with fear, unseeing, unblinking. For a cold moment, they are locked like that, in the moment before a fight, neither one ready to strike the first blow. 

Then, all at once, like a leaking balloon, Bruce goes slack and relents. His grip loosens and then drops, leaving Clark's shirt tattered as his hands fall to his sides. Bruce collapses on his knees in the dirt—in, Clark realizes now, the shattered remains of his own coffin. He kneels there, shaking silently, and all Clark can do is stand and stare, dumbfounded.

"Bruce?" His voice breaks on that single syllable.

The sound snaps Bruce from his reverie, and when he looks up, his eyes have cleared, the cloud of fear replaced with sharp, familiar clarity. He swallows, pushes himself to his feet. He reaches out, and Clark doesn't think before holding out a hand to steady him. "Clark," he rasps. "How long was I—?"

"Four days," Clark says.

Bruce closes his eyes, still as a stone. He doesn't even breathe, and for a split second, Clark's heart seizes— "Four days," he echoes, his voice still rough. "God..." He runs a hand through his hair and leans against the dirt wall. "What happened to me?"

Clark hesitates, and in the moment before he speaks, a terrible epiphany crystallizes in his mind. Despite the fear and adrenaline, no matter how he strains for it, Clark can't hear Bruce's heart. "I don't know," he says softly. "I'm sorry."

Bruce bows his head for a moment, then nods. "I don't remember..." He grimaces, shuts his eyes, and tries again. "I remember going on patrol, but the details are hazy." The grimace hardens into a scowl. "And the harder I try to recall them, the worse it is. And all I remember after leaving the manor is waking up in _that._ " Here he gestures towards the broken casket. "If you have any details at all, I'd appreciate it."

Clark wets his lips, unsure, unsteady. Whatever he's looking at may be wearing Bruce's face, his form, but the stopped heart, the apparent lack of any need to breathe—

"Clark." Bruce's expression is one of simultaneous concern and irritation. That much, then, remains the same. "Why are you looking at me like that? _You_ of all people shouldn't be this disturbed by someone coming back from the dead."

There's no good way to sugarcoat this—and if this really is Bruce, he wouldn't tolerate it anyway. Clark pinches the bridge of his nose, screwing his eyes shut. "Your heart," he says. "Your heart isn't beating."

Bruce levels a look of exasperation at Clark that's so familiar he could be convinced everything is normal, that they aren't standing in Bruce's open grave. "Yes," he says, "I'm well aware of that." He rubs at his jaw, annoyance fading into contemplation. "I'm me, Clark. I don't know what happened to me, or why or how I came back, but I'm still definitely  _me._ And... I need your help."

Clark swallows. "How am I supposed to know you're not something—something else? And what kind of help?" he asks.

Bruce quirks an eyebrow—either at Clark's skepticism or at his offering help regardless. "I don't remember the night I died," he admits, "but I remember everything else. My childhood, my parents—meeting you," he says. "Dick was _enamored_  with you, you know that? He wanted to be around you more than around me most of the time." Bruce rolls his eyes, but quickly sobers again, carding his fingers through his hair. "But that's something anyone could know. Your mother..." The corner of his mouth teases at a smirk. "I remember your mother coercing my whole house into trying to fit into that tiny house of hers for Thanksgiving dinner a few years ago. As I recall, you and I ended up eating dessert on the roof of the barn when it got too crowded."

Clark can't help but smile at that, but Bruce isn't quite done.

"You started to— _ah,_  that's it," he says with a fierce flash of a grin. " _You helped me work on my Kryptonian that night, too, remember? Taught me the different constellations._ " The grin widens at Clark's wide-eyed gawk. "It's me, Clark. Help me."

Clark hesitates for a fraction of a second, then nods. "What kind of help?" he repeats. 

"I need to figure out what happened to me. What and who happened to me the night I died, how I came back to life, why I came back..." Bruce grimaces. "Why I came back wrong, whether or not I can be fixed."

Clark reaches out a hand; Bruce grasps it with a grim smile. "Whatever you need," Clark promises. "Do you want me to take you back to the manor?"

Bruce shakes his head vehemently. "No, no—I don't want to go back until I know if this is going to"—he frowns, then slackens again with a sigh—"to stick. And if it does stick, I need to determine any side effects, make sure I'm not a danger to anyone, especially after I lashed out at you like that." He flashes a rueful smile, but it's gone as quickly as it came, and his eyes are downcast. "I'm sorry, by the way. I was... scared," he says. "Being buried alive doesn't agree with me, apparently."

"I don't think it agrees with anyone," Clark says. "The only other places I can think to go are the Fortress and—well, my apartment," he finishes, a little lamely. "Metropolis is a shorter trip, but you'd have more resources in the Arctic."

Bruce considers this for a moment. "Metropolis for now," he says with a short nod. "When I've exhausted your resources, then maybe we'll go to the Fortress. At the moment, though..." Bruce turns, hoisting himself out of the hole—the grave, Clark's brain helpfully reminds him—and standing at its edge.

When Clark follows, Bruce starts scooping up the dirt and piling it back into the grave. After a second's consideration, Clark follows suit; it's better, he supposes, that no one realize the grave's been disturbed at all. Someone grave-robbing a high-profile man like Bruce Wayne would garner attention, which is the last thing Bruce seems to want at the moment. Bruce casts him a grateful look as they shovel the soil back, silence heavy between them. Clark tamps the dirt down until it's about the same as it was before Bruce burst out of it. 

Bruce brushes the dirt off the front of his suit and runs a hand through his hair again, staring up at the half-moon with an almost wistful gleam in his eyes. In an instant, the look is gone, replaced with cold determination. He turns as Clark peels out of his civilian clothes, takes a step forward before putting a hand on Clark's shoulder, the other resting against the crest across his chest. A dry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. "Shall we?"

Clark grins back. He wraps an arm around Bruce's waist, the other hand resting between his shoulders. "Hold on tight."

"Don't I always?"

* * *

There's a shocking incongruence to Bruce's presence in Clark's apartment—there always has been, whenever he's come by, but it seems especially drastic now as he stands in the middle of Clark's living room, still wearing the suit he'd been buried in. Bruce brushes the lingering layer of dirt from his lapel, grimacing at the small mess it leaves on the carpet. 

"I can find you a change of clothes," Clark offers. "If you want."

Bruce stares down at himself for a moment before nodding, just once. "That'd be for the best," he says. "If I have to leave the apartment for any reason, I'm less likely to be recognized in your godawful flannel than in anything Bruce Wayne would ever actually be caught dead in." He flinches at his own wording. "Pun not intended."

Clark ignores the sharp stab in his chest that Bruce's attempt at humor may or may not have caused; bleak humor in the face of one's own death just runs in the family, if his limited experience with Jason is anything to go by. (Everyone has their own ways to cope with this sort of thing, Clark reminds himself. He should really only protest when it starts to get worrying.) He nods, turning towards his room—there's not much difference between them in clothing sizes, and Clark Kent tends to buy a size too big anyway, so finding something Bruce can wear won't be hard. 

He stops, however, when a hand reaches out and clutches the edge of his cape. Clark turns, his heart clenching at the flash of fear across Bruce's face. 

"Sorry, sorry," Bruce mutters, almost to himself. He shakes his head and lets the cape drop. "I'll come in with you, if it's all the same to you."

Clark just flashes a warm smile—the sort Superman uses to reassure frightened children, or (apparently) men who've been trapped alone in the dark for a moment too long. "Whatever you need," he promises.

Bruce nods, and follows Clark without another word. 

Clark doesn't have what any reasonable person would call a wide selection of spare clothes, of course; one can only afford so much on his current salary. What he does have, though, is about as far from what Bruce wore in life as he can possibly get, so there isn't much deliberation necessary before Bruce excuses himself to change in the bathroom, walking out looking for all the world like a misplaced farmhand—smudges of dirt and all. He's even mussed up his hair a little, letting it fall across his forehead, and procured a pair of Clark's old boots that are just far enough from falling to pieces that Clark hasn't had the heart to get rid of them just yet.

"You look ready to fix a tractor," Clark says with a grin. "Are you... actually planning on leaving the apartment?"

Bruce shakes his head. "Not any time soon," he says. "But I couldn't stay in that damn suit another minute." 

Clark certainly can't begrudge him that. He waits until Bruce steps back towards the living room before walking that way himself, letting Bruce hear his footsteps following close behind so as not to cause him another panic. Bruce quickly settles on Clark's couch and plucks his laptop off the coffee table, a familiar resolve settling over his expression. 

"Anything I can do?" asks Clark.

Another shake of his head—but Bruce pauses after, frowning. "Actually," he says, "I'd like to take a look at your kitchen."

Clark raises an eyebrow at that, but gestures towards his open kitchen in a manner that says _sure, whatever the hell you want._  Bruce cracks a smile as he puts the laptop back on the table, and Clark obligingly follows him into the kitchen. Watching Bruce rifle through his cabinets isn't unlike watching a pregnant person in a grocery store, Clark thinks—most of his meat ends up on the countertop, as well as every single can of tuna in his cupboard, several cans of beans, and a bag of dried apricots.

Bruce stares at the array for a few seconds, humming thoughtfully to himself. Clark follows his gaze apprehensively, stomach turning a little at the idea of mixing any of those ingredients together.

"I'm a little afraid to ask what kind of recipe you're thinking of making out of all that," Clark says with a smile, folding his arms as he leans against the fridge. 

Bruce just snorts. "Trust me, I'm not combining anything," he says. "I just have a... a craving." He frowns again, as if unsure of his phrasing. After a moment, Bruce screws his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose. When he speaks again, there's a thin layer of restrained frustration in his voice. "Except I can't think of a way to cook anything that sounds even remotely appetizing right now, goddammit—"

"Hey," Clark says, taking a step forward and resting a hand on Bruce's shoulder. Bruce flinches, but only a little. "Give it time," he says. "Your body's probably just adjusting to—being alive again. Things'll settle eventually."

Bruce falls still, head bowed, unbreathing. A few seconds, a minute, a small eternity passes, and they just stand there in Clark's kitchen, silent but for Clark's own breath and heartbeat. Eventually, Bruce rests his hand on Clark's, squeezes it gratefully. 

"I don't know, Clark," Bruce says, his voice soft even to Clark's ears. "Looking at all this—I feel like I'm starving, but I don't _want_ any of it."

Clark leans, trying to look Bruce in the eye. "What do you want, then?"

A breathless, humorless laugh. "I just want to feel alive again."

What can Clark say to that? All the truths that come to mind— _it gets easier,_   _the fear fades, you'll adjust eventually—_ sound like flat platitudes even in his own head, and Bruce has never been one to tolerate a platitude. He glances down at the tile, a sigh rattling in his throat. What can he say? Nothing, really.

So he wraps an arm around Bruce's shoulder, draws him to his chest. Bruce stiffens at first—maybe the contact makes him uncomfortable, or the feeling of Clark's heartbeat just reminds him of what he doesn't have—but, muscle by muscle, he relaxes, letting his forehead fall against Clark's shoulder, his hands curling into fists at Clark's back. Bruce doesn't tremble, doesn't weep; he just lets his weight fall against Clark, lets Clark hold him.

"You will," Clark promises. "You will."

Bruce breathes out a long, slow sigh. He pulls Clark in closer, sucks that breath back in, and nods into Clark's shoulder. "Thank you."

Clark smiles as Bruce draws back, keeping a hand on his shoulder—in case the contact helps, in case it keeps him grounded. "Whatever you need," he says again. 

Bruce glances at the spread of food on the counter and his mouth curls into a mirthless smile. He reaches out, grabbing for the dried apricots, grimacing as he pops one in his mouth. "I need," he says, "to figure out what the fuck is wrong with me."

* * *

It's dawn by the time Bruce closes Clark's laptop. The whole bag of apricots is (reluctantly, judging by the childish grimace Bruce makes every time he swallows one) gone, as are all of Clark's canned beans and most of his beef. Anything to help Bruce, Clark thinks—but he's definitely going to need to get some groceries after work today.

Bruce stares out the window as if he can intimidate the sun into going back down if he glares at it hard enough. He shoves himself off the couch, sullenly closing the drapes.

"So," Clark says, the first time either of them has broken the silence since Bruce had started his research. "Any leads?"

Bruce reaches for one of Clark's lamps to switch it on, runs a hand through his hair as he drops back onto the sofa. He lifts one arm up in a noncommittal shrug. "Hard to say," he says. "As many people as we know who have come back from the dead—" and here he casts a significant glance towards Clark—"there aren't any that I'm aware of who have had my... symptoms." He lifts a hand, starting to count on his fingers. "No heartbeat, even hours after resurrection. No apparent need for respiration, either. Inexplicable cravings, mostly for meat and meat byproducts. Said cravings being rendered moot once food is actually available—and, in fact, food being nearly repulsive when presented. Hunger hasn't dissipated even after eating all _that_ ," he adds, gesturing to the empty apricot bag, the stack of cans, and a plate of barely-cooked beef that he had practically licked clean only minutes ago. Bruce puts a hand over his eyes and sighs.

"After all that," he says again, "I still feel like I'm starving. I'm already running out of plausible options for what my condition could reasonably be, Clark. And the implausible..." Bruce frowns. "The implausible, I'd rather not consider until I've completely run out of options."

Clark stands, picking up the dishes, and Bruce follows suit almost immediately—to help, and to avoid losing line of sight on Clark as he goes to the kitchen. "What kind of implausible are we talking?" Clark asks as he starts rinsing out the cans.

Bruce goes still but for a slight sideways glance towards Clark. "The kind of implausible that parents use to scare their children," he says. He closes his eyes, brow knotted in a scowl. "It's the hunger, mostly," he adds, "that makes me even consider it. If it weren't for that, I'd assume this was all just a side-effect of coming back from the dead the way I did—whatever way _that_ was—but..." He shakes his head. "I must have eaten half your damn kitchen by now, and I feel more hungry, not less."

Something cold settles into Clark's stomach that he'd really rather ignore. He suds up a rag and starts washing off Bruce's plate, just to give his hands something to do while he listens.

"With the sun coming up," Bruce continues, "that only gives me further reasons for concern—and solidifies some of the more improbable hypotheses I have, which, again, I don't want to seriously consider until I've exhausted all other options."

Clark frowns at that. "What happened when the sun came up?" he asks. All he'd noticed was that Bruce got slightly irritable, but that's hardly abnormal for a given measure of Bruce in the morning.

Bruce wets his lips, balling up the apricot bag and tossing it across the kitchen, into the garbage. "The minute it started coming through the window," he says, "I just felt... exhausted. All the energy I'd had keeping me going through the night, just—" He waves a hand, like a magician performing a disappearing act. "Gone, as soon as the light touched me."

"At least you aren't burning up," Clark says, elbowing him gently.

He'd meant to lighten the mood a bit, but it has precisely the opposite effect—Bruce's face goes cold, and he takes in a slow breath. "At least there's that," he says somberly. "But you see what I'm getting at, clearly. As much as I dislike the conclusion..." He shakes his head. "Well. I'm still not going to say the V word until I have no other choice."

A faint shiver darts down Clark's back at that. He's not fond of that idea either, but the more thought he puts into it, the more things add up—the violent rise from his grave, the lack of a pulse, of breath, the hunger (craving, Clark realizes somewhat belatedly, only the food Clark had that was heavy in iron). 

"And if that ends up being the case?" Clark asks. "What then?"

Bruce rubs his temple with his fingertips. "As much as I'd prefer to cross that bridge if and when I come to it," he says, "that's not a valid option. The best case scenario is that it's something I can use to my advantage—something that will let me go back to Gotham and continue the mission, maybe even more effectively than before." Clark frowns, but Bruce puts up a hand. "If the scum of Gotham's underbelly are scared senseless by a man dressed like a bat, how do you think they'll respond to a literal blood-sucking monster, Clark? I wouldn't even have to do anything other than let more rumors spread. And besides which," he adds, "if I _can_ continue the mission this way, it'll be uninterrupted. No need to play at being Bruce Wayne anymore, now that Bruce Wayne is dead and buried."

Clark swallows. "That won't exactly be good for your state of mind," he points out. He _knows_  Bruce, and he knows that he'll tear himself to shreds for Gotham, possibly-immortal undead being or no.

Bruce gives a derisive snort. "Neither was leading a double life," he says. "Worst case scenario," he continues, sobering, "is that I go... feral. Lose control, lose my humanity. If worst comes to worst, I'll find someone willing to—eliminate the problem." He takes in a breath. "But that's beside the point. This is all still just conjecture, you understand—"

"Sure it is," Clark replies, one eyebrow raised. (He doesn't think about the implications behind _going feral_  and _eliminating the problem._ Because it's conjecture, like Bruce said. They don't have to worry about that right now. Right now, he can just be glad that Bruce is here, and not in a grave forty miles away.)

"I want to do more research before I come to any real conclusions at all," Bruce says firmly. "I'm sure there are..." He grimaces. "Tests that can be conducted to rule out the possibility. It's just a matter of knowing where to look. In the meantime, isn't it about time you went to work?"

Crap. Clark glances over Bruce's shoulder at the microwave clock, and—yeah, he should at least consider getting ready. He nudges Bruce away from the counter so he can start making coffee. Out of habit, he makes enough for two, waiting for the tell-tale _pit-pit-pat_  of the coffee maker starting before moving on to actual breakfast. 

"I'm sure Perry will at least hesitate before skinning me alive if I skip work today," Clark says lightly, hopping up onto the counter with a bowl of off-brand crisp rice. "If you need me—"

Bruce shakes his head. "I'll be fine for a few hours, Clark. Don't worry about me," he says. He manages a wry smile. "I'm not _that_  much of a mess." He watches the carafe filling up, and his smile softens. 

"I just want to be sure," Clark says. _I don't want to come back to find you dead again_ , he pointedly doesn't say, but Bruce has always had a talent for reading into his silences.

"I'll be fine," he repeats. "If anything comes up, I know how to get ahold of you."

The coffeemaker goes quiet. Before Clark has the chance to, Bruce reaches for the carafe, starts pouring both mugs. He casts a sidelong glance at Clark, smirking—but it's not like Clark has any cause for concern. Bruce has known for years how Clark likes it, and he's never given Clark reason to distrust how it'll taste when he's done with it. And, indeed, when Bruce slides the cup across the counter, it's damn near perfect.

They make a hell of a sight; Bruce dressed up in Clark's old clothes, leaning against the fridge and staring at the ceiling—and Clark still in full Superman regalia, sitting on the linoleum countertop, cradling a bowl of cereal in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other. For a moment, Clark can almost forget the events of the night, pretend that they're just sharing a morning after a particularly strange mission.

Except for the lingering silence of Bruce's unbeating heart.

Clark tries to ignore that as he gets ready for work. Bruce settles back on the sofa with his own coffee, the glow of the laptop's LED giving his face an almost ethereal pale cast in the low living room light. (At least he doesn't grimace when he drinks the coffee.) Out of habit, Clark reaches to turn out the lights before he walks out the door, but—

"Don't." Beat. "Please."

Clark nods, giving a wave that's slightly more cheerful than he feels, and locks the door behind himself. He doesn't let himself linger too long on the irony of a vampire who's afraid of the dark. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, massive thanks to my dear friend and beta KathrynShadow, and to all of you lovely people who have poured so much love on this thing and asklhkljgg. Like I said, this is my first foray into DC fanfic, and y'all have been so encouraging, making this probably my most successful fic to date. I love y'all.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce has always been good at waiting. Crouching on gargoyles until his knees give out, staring at cross-references until the bats come home to roost, that's easy. This, however, is downright maddening: sitting in Clark's apartment, watching the options for what he's become slowly dwindling down while the clock inches forward, minute by torturous minute, his stomach tearing itself apart with the hunger, and all while he can hear the neighbors stirring, hear their sluggish hearts come to life and _God_ he's so hungry he could—

Bruce is not fine for those few hours, as it turns out.

It's nigh impossible to get any worthwhile research done with nothing but a three-year-old laptop and Google, as Bruce learned a few hours into his investigation. Most results pertaining to coming back from the dead by means other than resuscitation and the side-effects thereof are just drivel from loud zealots given platform by questionable news websites for the sake of generating hits. When he reads those accounts just out of sheer desperation, they're just as unhelpful as he knew they would be. So, too, are any results on craving iron-rich foods—he knows he doesn't have a deficiency; his diet before death had been too meticulous for that. Sunlight-related fatigue nets him articles on heat exhaustion, which is definitely not an issue given how damn cold he feels.

Taking one of Clark's blankets and enveloping himself in it hadn't helped matters, either. If anything, all it had done was punctuated how alone he is here, how empty the apartment is with nothing but a walking corpse and a laptop. (At least the insistent whir of the computer's fan cuts into the silence, but—

One side-effect of his resurrection, apparently, had been that he can hear nearly as well as Superman can. Clark's almost anxious heartbeat had been almost reassuring in the silence before dawn; now all Bruce has is the hum of the laptop, the rattle of the air conditioning.)

The coffee is bitter on his tongue. Sharp, over-roasted. Bruce sighs, putting the mug down on the table for the tenth time.

Bruce has always been good at waiting. Crouching on gargoyles until his knees give out, staring at cross-references until the bats come home to roost, that's easy. This, however, is downright maddening: sitting in Clark's apartment, watching the options for what he's become slowly dwindling down while the clock inches forward, minute by torturous minute, his stomach tearing itself apart with the hunger, and all while he can hear the neighbors stirring, hear their sluggish hearts come to life and  _ God _ he's so hungry he could—

He presses his fingers to his eyes until stars spark across his vision. Goddammit, he's better than this. It's probably just a placebo of some sort; entertaining the notion of transforming into some supernatural monster has brought to light the dark, base urges that he'd been able to keep down in life. 

Dark, base urges like eating people. Right. As if that had ever even crossed his mind when he was alive. Bruce sighs, reaching for the coffee again, as if it has some properties that will mystically fix all of his problems.

It's half past noon when Bruce shuts the laptop down, frustrated both by how profoundly inconclusive his search has been so far, and by the fact that the conclusions he can make are rapidly shrinking in number. He gets up, still folded up in the blanket, and looks through Clark's fridge for the fourth time. Just like the other three glances, though, there's nothing there that he actually wants. The raw beef is... more appealing than he cares to admit to himself, but he tamps that thought down as soon as it manifests. He's eaten enough of Clark's food, anyway; there's no point in going through any more when he knows it won't satisfy him. 

Instead, he wanders back into the living room, the lights still on, and lies down on the couch, cocooned in Clark's blanket—which is at once not tight enough around his shoulders and smothering, like the coils of a python or the silk of a casket— 

Bruce groans, turning over. The sliver of sunlight still able to spill in through the curtains falls across his face, and he lets the fatigue seep into his bones, lets it draw him down, down, down...

When Bruce sleeps, it's blessedly dreamless. 

* * *

He wakes the second the door opens—Clark needs to oil a hinge—jolting upright and jerking towards the sound. Clark stands dumbly at the door, expression flickering from surprise to relief to a tired kind of fondness in the span of a second and a half. His arms are full of grocery bags, and Bruce can—shit, Bruce can smell everything in them. More raw meat, some fruit, a couple loaves of bread, and... something else, something rich that Bruce can't quite name. Pushing the smells out of his mind before they drive him crazy, Bruce stands; even though he knows that Clark doesn't need any help carrying it, it would be rude to lie on his couch while he juggles groceries into the kitchen.

"Morning, sleepyhead," Clark says, gratefully handing off one of the bags. "Any luck?"

Bruce shrugs. "More of the same," he admits. "Evangelical claptrap about coming back from hell—" he'd even tripped on a page of Chick Tracts at one point, what fun that had been—"dieting advice, et cetera et cetera ad nauseam." He puts the bag on the counter, starts pulling things out of it to put away. His fingers close around a small, plastic bottle, which rattles as he picks it up out of the bag. Bruce raises an eyebrow at it. "Iron supplements. Cute."

Clark chuckles, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I thought it might help."

Bruce turns the bottle over thoughtfully. "I won't rule out the possibility," he concedes. "Thank you."

Clark smiles. He looks back at the other bags and blows the hair from his forehead. "I wasn't sure if you'd have another, ah, craving, so I went a little overboard," he says, and shit, he isn't kidding. Most of what's in the bags is meat—red meat and beans, and Bruce is about to open his mouth to apologize for how much all that would have cost, but Clark puts up a hand. "I  _ want _ to help you," he says. "If that means spending a little more than the usual budget on some beef, then so be it. Besides, it's not like I'm not going to eat it too."

And who is Bruce to disagree with that cheeky little grin? Bruce puts up his hands in surrender. "Thank you," he says again, with the distinct feeling that he's going to end up thanking Clark a few more dozen times before this—whatever it is—is over. 

"Thank me by helping to put all this junk away," Clark says, his grin widening. 

It's easy to slip into a rhythm for the few minutes it takes to put everything away; Bruce takes the perishables, since Clark knows his cupboards better, and they pass the food back and forth as necessary. Bruce can focus on that, at least for a moment, and not on the steady thrum of Clark's heartbeat, or that rich, warm smell of  _ goddammit _ . 

The hunger, too, gnaws at him more now that there's no research to distract him, shredding at his insides. Experimentally, he tosses a small palmful of the supplements down, swallows them with water. Clark watches him with unveiled concern, and it... the pills help, Bruce thinks. It tempers the ravenousness, brings it down to a manageable, rumbling ache. (And if it doesn't, then he'll convince himself it will, because the alternative is too abominable to even consider.)

Bruce stays in the kitchen while Clark makes himself dinner, focuses on the hiss of the pan as a chicken breast sears, the muted  _ crunch _ of the pepper mill, the smell of lemon juice. That, too, helps with the hunger, if only because it's all so unappetizing to him now that it almost makes him feel ill. It doesn't, however, help to mute that rich, warm odor, which Bruce still can't quite place. It's not anything from the grocery store, he can tell that much, which doesn't leave many possibilities other than—

_ Shit _ , Bruce thinks. If Clark is going to start smelling more like dinner to him than an actual dinner, they're going to have more problems than Bruce eating all of his steak.

"Any other symptoms show up?" Clark asks, clearly trying to sound casual and failing.

Bruce quirks an eyebrow. "None in the past few hours," he says. (He considers the simultaneously insufficient yet smothering weight of the blanket, but chalks that up to the trauma of being buried... not precisely alive, but close enough, and then being left alone for too long after.) "I spent most of the day sleeping, to be honest."

Clark nods, failing also not to look visibly relieved. "Okay." And then, after worrying his lip— "And how was that?"

"It was fine," Bruce says, shaking his head and letting himself smile. "Nothing happened. Didn't even dream."

Clark seems satisfied by that, at least. There is, Bruce muses, nothing quite like being mothered by Superman. He hopes he can survive.

They eat dinner—or, rather, Clark eats while Bruce glares at the laptop—in the living room, the lights bright even though the sun hasn't finished setting yet. The dark, as Bruce has learned, is too much, too similar to the pitch black of his own coffin, the oppressive weight of oblivion. He'll work on that. In the meantime, Clark is nothing if not accommodating (and Bruce will find some way to thank him for that, when he can figure out a way to worm his way into a dead man's bank accounts, no matter how much Clark will surely protest). 

The silence that falls between them is amiable, almost pleasant—though it'd be more so if Clark would quit glancing at Bruce every forty seconds as if he's going to vanish in a plume of smoke. 

"How was work?" Bruce asks, without looking up from the laptop. He's fallen into something of a pit by now, cached forums that have been dead for nearly a decade discussing cravings none of the parties involved would ever admit to anyone they knew in real life. Vampiric self-help, he thinks, and then promptly pretends he didn't.

Clark gives a noncommittal shrug. "It was work," he says. "I've got light stuff on my plate for the next while—puff pieces, mostly—since I'm technically..." He clears his throat. "Since I'm technically mourning and all. I think they're showing mercy on me, at least for now."

Bruce grimaces at that, as though he had any control over his own death. For God's sake, he doesn't even  _ remember _ it. He hesitates for a moment, then rests his hand on Clark's knee. Clark stares at it as if it's going to bite him. "I'm sorry," he says softly.

Clark sighs, putting his dinner on the coffee table. "It's not your fault," he says. "And—for what it's worth, as weird as it is to have you walking around without a heartbeat, I'll take that over having you in the ground any day. Even," he adds, glancing at Bruce before he can so much as open his mouth, "with whatever may or may not be going on with you as a side-effect, or... whatever's happening. I'm just glad you're alive, one way or another."

Silence. Bruce stares back down at his hand on Clark's knee, considers voicing all of his concerns on that front—how much Clark would enjoy his resurrection if he knew that only a few hours ago Bruce had caught himself daydreaming about eating his neighbors—but. The past week hasn't been kind to Clark, and it's the least Bruce can do to try and make up for that. So he won't place those concerns on Clark's shoulders until it well and truly becomes a problem.

His stomach growls. Bruce ignores it.

"Thank you," Bruce says instead. "I'll repay you for this when I—"

Clark levels a look at him that he usually reserves for corrupt leaders of global superpowers. It's hard not to shrink back from that, just a little, even for Batman. "No, you will not," he says. "You can thank me by not dying again, sure, but other than that? I  _ want _ to help you. If that means emptying a whole butcher shop to stave off your cravings, then so be it. If it means letting you crash on my couch for a whole  _ year _ —honestly, my apartment's been pretty empty lately anyway. I'm just—glad to have you around, Bruce."

The unspoken repetition— _ I'm just glad to have you around, alive _ —hangs in the air between them, and Bruce bows his head as he draws his hand back, yielding. 

Picking the plate back up again, Clark jabs at his chicken with the fork, wetting his lips. "Sorry," he says. "This week has just been... rough."

Bruce arches an eyebrow at that. "You don't say."

Clark laughs then, shaking his head. "I'm adjusting," he admits. "It's not every day your friend comes out of his grave to strangle you. Definitely not every day that a vampire crashes on my couch."

If it had been a regular occurrence, Bruce wouldn't have been too surprised. Clark probably wouldn't even think to make any undead couch-surfers help with rent. On  _ that _ note, though— "At least let me help you with rent," he says. "If I'm still here by the end of the month, let me at least cover half." He should be able to get access to his funds by then, one way or another. 

Clark pulls off his glasses, resting them on the table, and pinches the bridge of his nose. "If you can even pull that off," he says eventually, "then... fine." 

Bruce will take even that small victory. He settles back against the couch, staring at the laptop screen with unveiled exasperation. Clark leans, looking at the screen—and for a fraction of a second, everything is normal; it's just one of the rare times Superman came down to the Cave, looking over the Batman's consoles over his shoulder until one of them came to an epiphany.

Except Bruce isn't looking at criminal cross-references, he's looking at goddamn Yahoo! Answers of all things, and they aren't in the Cave, they're in Clark's messy apartment. No ambient trickle of the Cave's running water, no rustle and chatter of bats, just the clamor of traffic outside, a couple arguing a floor above, and the steady rhythm of Clark's heart. Bruce keeps his focus wholly on the screen and doesn't breathe. 

"Is there anyone I could call for you?" Clark asks.

Bruce mentally flicks through his list of even vaguely reputable experts on the supernatural, then wrinkles his nose. "Later, maybe," he says. "I'll compile a list of worthwhile prospects in the meantime." A list of two people, probably. If that. 

He doesn't have to glance over to know Clark is smiling at that. The fork clinks against his plate, and then the plate against the counter. When Clark speaks again, his mouth is full. "I just feel weird twiddling my thumbs while you're..." He pauses to swallow, and then to snoop on the drivel Bruce has found himself reading. "Researching," Clark finishes dryly. 

Bruce elbows him in the side, and is rewarded with a much more genuine-sounding  _ oof _ than he was expecting. Shit. "Are you—?"

"I'm fine," Clark says, putting up a hand. He rubs at his ribs, a slight frown etching into his brow. "That does answer one thing, though."

"...what?"

"Well, you don't have any Kryptonite on you, last I checked, and the sun hasn't changed color in the past five minutes," Clark says. "I'd chalked up that outburst in the graveyard to... whatever the undead version of an adrenaline rush is, but you're not having an episode right now. But that—" Clark untucks his shirt, draws the hem up his side. There's already the shadow of a bruise starting to form. Bruce's stomach turns. "That actually  _ hurt. _ Whatever's going on with you has to be some sort of magic."

Bruce takes in a deep breath—immediately regrets it, his nostrils filling with that warm, rich smell,  _ God _ —and lets it out in a long sigh. "Shit," he says.

* * *

Without the help of actual experts—as opposed to armchair ghost-hunters and cryptid enthusiasts on the internet—there's little Bruce can do from Clark's couch. He scribbles down a (brutally short) list of people Clark might be able to contact to try and glean a little more information about his condition, and then the cabin fever sets in.

The sun has barely set on his first full day here and Bruce already needs to get the hell out of this building. 

"I want to go back to Gotham," Bruce says, breaking half an hour's silence. 

Clark starts. "What, already? I thought—" He cocks his head to one side, looking for all the world like a confused golden retriever in a button-down.

"Not to see my family," Bruce clarifies quickly. "I haven't changed my mind on that. But if I'm already hitting dead ends on what I've turned into, then all I can do until I have more resources is to look into how I got this way in the first place. How I died. Which means going back to Gotham."

"And you plan on doing this without getting recognized?" Clark asks, raising an eyebrow. 

Bruce steeples his fingers, piecing together a disguise in his head. "I'll need some supplies," he concedes. "Darker clothes than what you've got in your closet, for one." Clark's wardrobe is many things; lower-class Gothamite is not among them. "Decent enough makeup and I can disguise most of my facial structure, even create the illusion of a decent five-o'clock shadow..."

Clark's expression shifts from befuddlement to amusement. "So I need to do more shopping, is what you're saying."

The thought of staying cooped up in here for much longer while Clark gets to walk around in the sun makes Bruce's stomach twist. But given that he still doesn't know how much of a threat he poses to others—he thinks of the bruise he left on Clark's side, and sighs. "If it's not too much trouble," he says. He refuses to let Clark bankrupt himself over this, but it'll be a while before the dust settles enough that Bruce will feel comfortable sneaking into his own funds to repay him. And, unfortunately, despite his public persona, no one buried him with wads of rolled-up cash in his pockets, so he can't pay Clark that way.

Being dead is goddamn inconvenient.

"It's not," Clark says, still sounding just as sincere as ever. "So you can stop thinking about this in terms of how much of a burden it is on me right now, Bruce—just give me a list of what you need."

Bruce, appropriately chastised, rubs at his temples and stares at the notepad in his lap. After a moment's hesitation, he starts writing things down.

At the fifth item, he hears Clark trying and failing to stifle a laugh. "Maybe you should just come along," he says. "It's after dark, anyway, so your... light sensitivity won't be a problem."

No. No no no no— "I don't think that's wise, Clark," Bruce says warily. "We still don't know if I'm any danger to others, and given that I can apparently cause  _ you _ bodily harm now—"

Clark puts up a hand and shakes his head. "If you were going to cause problems, you would have done it by now," he says. "I mean, I did leave you alone, unsupervised, for almost ten full hours, and you said yourself that you mostly just slept. If that's the biggest danger you pose..." Clark grins. "I'm not all that concerned about you napping at a bunch of innocent civilians."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "That was during the daylight hours," he insists. "The sun makes me sluggish, but now that it's down, I have no frame of reference for what I might be like in public."

"Even if you're likely to go on some sort of killing spree—which I don't believe for a second," Clark says, casting Bruce a stern look, "I'm pretty sure I can still handle you if you cause any problems, bruises or no." His expression softens, a faint smile touching his eyes. "Besides," he adds, "I can tell being stuck in here is already eating at you. It'll be good for you to get some fresh air."

_ You're a bastard, Clark Kent _ , Bruce thinks. "I don't think that's wise," is what he says aloud. "The whole point of this is to keep people from recognizing me when I get to Gotham, Clark. In the interim, a bit of flannel—" here he plucks at Clark's loose-fitting shirt over his chest—"isn't going to be much good for not getting spotted at a Wal-Mart."

"The bit of flannel was your idea," Clark points out dryly, "and it's not like Bruce Wayne was a frequent shopper at... well, anywhere with price tags under a few thousand dollars, and especially not in Metropolis." He touches his chin thoughtfully. "We can put some sunglasses on you, grab a baseball cap to cover your forehead. That's usually enough for me."

Clark and his flimsy disguises never cease to make Bruce want to bash his head against a wall. Honestly, all the effort he'd put forth over so many years, cultivating an entire  _ personality _ , and it just takes Superman a pair of glasses and some questionable fashion sense. Still, if it works for Superman... 

Bruce cannot believe he's even considering this.

"If I'm going to keep humoring you," Bruce says slowly, "why, exactly, am I going to be wearing sunglasses at night?" He jabs a finger at Clark. "And if you start singing, I  _ will _ kick you."

Clark grins, putting up his hands. "Pretend you're blind and deaf," he says. "Hat and sunglasses to protect your eyes—and hide your face, of course—and if you just sign, no one can recognize you by your voice."

This is making far, far too much sense. "You're learning," Bruce says, failing—much to his annoyance—not to sound in any way impressed. 

Clark's grin widens. "I'll come along as your..." He pauses, his grin shifting as he thinks. "Brother, or boyfriend, or just a friend—whichever you'd rather—someone who can help you pick out clothes and such, since it's not like the labels are going to be in Braille."

Bruce arches an eyebrow at that. "As if I'd trust you picking out clothes for me," he says wryly, gesturing once again to the flannel and jeans he's currently sporting. He leans back into the couch, arms folded over his chest. "A lover would be a better cover if anyone asks," he says, almost to himself. Clark, Bruce learns then, blushes first with his nose, and then very quickly with his entire face. "What? You suggested it first."

"Right," Clark coughs. "Right. I sure did."

* * *

As much as the nagging voice in the back of Bruce's mind says this is a terrible idea, he and Clark are still down on the street, waiting for a bus in the dark within twenty minutes. (A bus, because Clark refuses to contribute more greenhouse gases by driving his own car through Metropolis traffic—and besides which, he explains a little sheepishly, any time he might have to slam on the brakes he risks shoving his foot through the floor. There's got to be a story behind that.) Bruce huddles against him, even though he can't feel the evening chill, in a truly godawful pair of enormous sunglasses and Clark's Royals cap.

Clark's arm around his shoulder is solid, warm. He can feel Clark's pulse through the hand resting on his arm, can hear it even through his clothes. Bruce focuses on that, lets it ground him against the onslaught of sensation that is Metropolis after sundown.

God, he can hear—he can hear  _ everything. _ Every car horn, every piece of chatter, every street musician, every sputtering engine. How does Clark not go insane?

The bus, at least, is quieter; this late in the day, there aren't many commuters, and the handful of people still riding are the sorts who'd rather shove their headphones in and pretend the rest of the world doesn't exist until they get wherever they're going. Clark guides Bruce towards the back of the bus—a conspicuous  _ mind the step, hon _ ; Clark is a better actor than Bruce sometimes gives him credit for—keeps his hands on Bruce's shoulders until he's seated by the window, and then his arm is around Bruce again.

It's for reassurance as much as for the sake of the act, Bruce knows, but he indulges himself, lets himself enjoy it. (Doing so will make the act more convincing anyway, he reminds himself.) He leans further against Clark, tilting his head into Clark's shoulder. It's... nice, the solid warmth of him, the reminder of life.

"Two more stops," Clark murmurs, his voice jolting Bruce out of his thoughts.

Focus. This is to ensure he can get through Gotham safely without being recognized as a walking dead man, not so he can indulge in the only contact he's had with a living thing since his resurrection. 

"Thanks," Bruce murmurs back, and then, for the act, "babe."

To his credit, Clark doesn't react past chuckling softly into Bruce's hair and squeezing him a little more tightly. "What're you planning on doing once you get to Gotham?" he asks.

Bruce shifts, breathes in—and shit, he keeps making the same damn mistake, keeps taking in that same warm aroma (like honey, like sunlight) and he needs to get a grip on this before it has the chance to cause problems. "Retrace what steps I remember," he says quietly. "Mimic my patrol from that night, see if those steps lead me to whatever might have killed me."

He hears Clark swallow. "I don't suppose I could convince you to let me come with you?"

Bruce snorts. "One civilian wandering through Gotham's underbelly is risk enough. Two is just asking for trouble." He shakes his head. "But," he adds, before Clark can protest, "if you still want to help in Gotham, there is something you can do for me."

"Whatever you want," Clark says, "hon."

If Bruce rolls his eyes at that, no one can see it behind the thick sunglasses. "Go watch the kids for me," he says. "Check up on them, see how they're doing."  _ Without me _ , he can't bring himself to say. They're a clever bunch; Bruce has absolute faith that they have everything in hand in his absence. But that won't stop him from worrying.

Clark rubs Bruce's arm. "Gladly. Do you want me to talk to them, or—?"

Bruce pauses, chews the inside of his cheek. (It tastes... pale. Flat. There's no coppery tang there now, just dead tissue.) "If you want," he says. "Just don't tell them I'm awake. Not yet."

"Of course not." Clark sighs, his chin ending up resting on the crown of Bruce's head.

"I'll tell them in my own time," Bruce says, stiffening. 

"I know you will," Clark says gently. "It's hard. I know it's hard." His hand keeps rubbing against Bruce's shoulder in slow, steady strokes. "You'll feel better when you do, though. Trust me."

Clark would know, but Bruce isn't inclined to tell him he's right. He just obligingly shifts his weight when Clark has to lean over him and tug the stop request cord. A friendly robotic voice echoes in the bus speakers, and when the vehicle comes to a full stop, Clark's hands are on Bruce's arms, guiding him out the back door. 

They aren't long inside the store—Bruce knows exactly where to go, what sort of aesthetic to cultivate to give the impression of a recently homeless man, the type commonplace in the areas he last remembers patrolling. The only real delay is due to the continued act, Clark making a show of guiding Bruce through the aisles that's just shy of overdoing it, and then coaxing him into the changing rooms. It's all terribly domestic.

Or it would be if it weren't for the sake of solving Bruce's own murder.

Clark makes casual small talk with the checker—spins some story about wanting to train to be a beautician when she scans the small pile of makeup, answers her friendly questions about Bruce and their make-believe relationship, even using hand-over-hand signing to translate for Bruce. His smile at that is only barely manufactured.

The checker wishes them well, and Clark blushes again when she tells them what a cute couple they are. 

Bruce doesn't talk again until they're on the bus back, away from anyone who was in the store. "Good job back there," he says quietly, barely audible over the engine.

Clark hesitates, but slowly folds his arm around Bruce's shoulders again. "Thanks," he says. Bruce doesn't have to look at him to know he's smiling. "Glad I didn't accidentally overdo it."

"Mm." Bruce tips his head onto Clark's shoulder, shuts his eyes.

He isn't even sure he can sleep with the sun down (another symptom he'll have to test), and he's completely alert now—the ambient rumble of the bus's engine, the idle murmur of their fellow passengers, the faint smell of everyone who's ridden in the past few hours, everything registers with crystal clarity. And yet, this is the most relaxed he's felt since his resurrection. Something to do with the promise of solving his own murder, perhaps, or else Clark just has that kind of an effect on people, including the dead.

"The tactile signing was a nice touch," Bruce murmurs. He wonders, in a far-off corner of his mind, where and when Clark picked that up, but it's not exactly crucial information. 

Clark chuckles as he reaches for the stop request cord. "Thanks." 

_ Ding.  _

"I think that went pretty well overall," Clark adds, leaning to adjust Bruce's—Clark's—cap as they step off. "I didn't make it too awkward, and there weren't any bloody killing sprees..." 

There was definitely an attempt at humor in there somewhere. Bruce grimaces. "There weren't very many people out," he points out. "But... hmph." He folds his arms, ostensibly because it is getting cold out, but mostly—if he's honest with himself, and he rarely is—because he'd rather not admit that Clark is right. Again. "That was a successful test run," he concedes. "Given enough focus, the hunger doesn't seem to be as much of an issue. That's promising."

Clark chuckles, hands on Bruce's shoulders again as they cross the road to the apartment complex. "I knew you could do it," he says. His hands are still on Bruce's arms as they ascend the stairs. While Bruce admires his dedication to the role, this isn't necessary; they're out of sight of anyone who would have seen their act outside, no one's going to question them if Bruce just walks up the stairs by himself.

Rather than say any of that, though— "Yes, well, you always have been obnoxiously optimistic."

"And you haven't?" Clark replies easily. 

Bruce grunts. Clark takes that as the admission it is—this is the third time he's avoided telling Clark he's right about something in the span of about two hours—and laughs again, deep and warm and much closer to Bruce's ear than he should be but for the act. Two more flights of stairs to go. For a long while, the only sound is their footfalls in the otherwise empty stairwell, the low hum of the ventilation. A tenant a floor below playing what sounds like Swedish speed metal. 

Maybe not the only sound, then.

"Are you going to need any help with the..." Clark rustles the bag of supplies. 

Bruce shakes his head. "I'll be fine." He glances sidelong at Clark, a smirk tugging at his mouth. "I've done this once or twice before, you know." 

Clark's hand moves, shifting up Bruce's arm, and Bruce knows without him actually taking that hand away that he was about to rub the back of his neck—before he remembered himself and the act. The act that'll be over in about thirty more steps from here to Clark's door. "Right, right. Silly me."

Bruce's shoe—Clark's shoe—Bruce's feet finally touch the carpet of the third floor hallway. Ten steps. The warmth of Clark's hands leaves Bruce's shoulders as Clark moves to unlock the door. Bruce tries not to feel the absence of it.

Clark is quick to turn on the light the second he steps in the door, filling the open living room with a dull fluorescent glow. Liberating the grocery bag from Clark's open hand, Bruce makes his way to the small bathroom at the back of the apartment. He lays out his supplies, glancing up into the mirror—

Oh,  _ goddammit. _

"Clark!" Bruce calls.

There's a blur of black and red flannel, and in barely a second Bruce sees Clark's worried face reflected back at him. "Bruce, what's—oh." The mirror Clark blinks, carding his fingers through his hair, and worries his lower lip. His eyes flit towards the nothing where Bruce should be. "That's a problem, huh."

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "I may need help after all."

"Yeah, so I see." Clark clears his throat, glancing at the array Bruce has spread out on the vanity. "Just tell me what to do."

An hour and a great deal of muttered cursing later, Clark steps back, regarding Bruce like an artist would a finished painting. He even taps the container of sealing powder against his lip. "I think I did pretty well," he says eventually, cracking a smile. Bruce quirks an eyebrow at that. "Not sure how to show you, though, since—that." He gestures towards the mirror, still only showing the tiled wall of the bathroom.

Bruce sighs. "I'll take your word for it," he says. "There's not much time left to waste if I want to get to Gotham and back before dawn  _ and _ get anything done while I'm there." He runs his hands through his hair, ruffling it from hat-hair to an acceptable level of disheveled for a John Doe who just happens to be roaming Gotham's underbelly at the ungodly hours of the night. "Let's go."

* * *

The cobblestones of Old Gotham  _ clunk  _ heavily beneath Bruce's boots. He walks with his head down, hands shoved into his pockets, and listens. Distantly, there's the clamor of nighttime traffic—what's left of it at this hour, but the nearest car he can hear is at least three blocks away. The footfalls of a handful of others echo across the otherwise empty streets (half a dozen other people; none of them so much as try to make conversation with one another), and the idle engine of—Bruce glances up, just briefly—a parked police cruiser rumbles, low and weary in the bleak Gotham night.

The air is rich, almost alive with aroma—the lingering warmth of food, of bread and meat, a scent wrapping through the air like an embrace as it drifts from the windows of old homes and restaurants, whose windows have been dark for hours. The thick, industrial odor of motor oil; the sweetness of perfume; the muted, pungent stink of the sewers below. Over it all, Bruce smells Gotham's  _ people _ , the honeyed temptation of—

Bruce clenches his jaw and holds his breath. (It doesn't stop him from hearing their hearts beating, the rabbiting beat of a drunk, the quickened jerk of a man's pulse as he passes across the entrance to a dark alley. 

But it helps, he tells himself. It helps.)

He's tracked what memories he has back to this place—this street is where his recollection fogs the most, before the fog coalesces into blackness. He had, he thinks, been following a lead that night. Something to do with human trafficking. God, if he could just remember.

The stones here crumbled to shards years ago, and the sheer depth of disrepair makes Bruce's still heart ache behind his ribs. This place had been beautiful, once. He drags his eyes up, away from the dilapidated street and up to the buildings above. Iron spikes jut from the walls, the last remnants of the signs that had marked bars, cobblers, butcher shops. The sight tugs at him, like the fading pull of a dream, and Bruce follows that pull.

It leads him down a long, winding alley, the buildings on either side dark and decrepit, their windows boarded. The alley dead-ends about a hundred meters from where Bruce stands; at the end, there is a  low, brick structure, its rust-red wall broken only by a single door—steel, from the look of it, and much, much newer than the building it opens into.

Bruce quickens his pace, hands still deep in his pockets. His plan was only to find the last place he remembers, to follow his own tracks to the place he had died. (Rather, he corrects himself, the place he'd been murdered. Going back to the manor will do him more harm than good.) Now, though, standing on what could be the threshold of the scene of his own murder, he can't help but to come closer, to approach the steel door and see what's behind. 

Even in Clark's old shoes, Bruce's steps are silent as he nears the brick wall. He pulls his hands from his pockets to balance himself as he crouches down, pressing his ear against the roughened surface. Through the wall, he can just barely make out voices, muted but distinct. Two—four—five people, he estimates, their tones low and level. Two women, three men. Bruce strains his hearing in an attempt to make out the words, but without special equipment, even his sharpened senses can't make out more than impressions. One of the women seems more impassioned than her compatriots; one of the men barely speaks at all, but his voice is a low, menacing bass when he does.

It isn't much to go on, but Bruce knows that no one,  _ no _ one, gathers this late for anything remotely legitimate. Not in Gotham. Even if this isn't where he had his final stand, it might be worth investigating for other purposes. Bruce puts his hand to the brick, presses his ear a little harder—

Another low voice, clear as the night sky but for a thick mechanical modulation, echoes in the dark. "You shouldn't be here." 

Bruce goes deathly still for an eternity of a second, before drawing away from the wall, turning his face away from the sound. He doesn't dare let himself speak. 

The whisper of fabric, the ghost of boots on stone as quiet as a breath—and almost immediately, Bruce can feel the warmth of a living body behind him, hear the faint yet steady beat of a heart. A shadow drapes itself over Bruce's, though it's a hair's breadth shorter than his own. "Maybe you didn't hear me the first time," says the voice. Clipped. Brusque. If Bruce didn't know better, he wouldn't be able to tell the difference between this and his own voice from behind the cowl. The pride of it almost makes him smile. "You shouldn't be here. If you're lost, turn around. If not..."

Bruce takes in a slow breath and puts up his hands. The shadow—the Bat—Dick steps back, and when Bruce turns, his hands are hidden behind the cape. The blue-white light of the cowl's lenses perfectly obscures Dick's eyes, but he can't hide the quick intake of breath from Bruce when he sees his face.

"Bruce?"

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, huge thanks to my wonderful beta KathrynShadow, and to every single one of you lovelies who's left a comment or kudos. Y'all make my day. <3


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You didn't think we deserved to know? God, Bruce—I carried you through the damn church, I watched them lower you down, Alfred found you on the goddamn floor—" Dick's voice cracks. "And you come back, and we weren't going to know for a _month,_ or longer. If ever. That's pretty shitty, you know that, right?"
> 
> Bruce bows his head. "I know," he says.

"Bruce," Dick says again, his voice soft behind the mechanical undertones of the cowl's modulator. This time it's not a question.

There's no point in denial. Dick's clever—always has been—and of _course_ he'd see through whatever Clark had managed to obscure of Bruce's features. Bruce had trained him better than to be fooled by an amateur's first attempt at stage makeup.

Bruce looks straight into the eyes of the Bat, keeping his expression guarded. "I guess I should have expected to bump into you here," he says.

To Dick's credit, his incredulity barely shows, either in his body language or in what little Bruce can see of his face. But it's certainly there in his voice. "You _died_ ," is his only reply.

"Yes." Bruce allows himself a wry smile. "It didn't stick very well."

"Never does," Dick says, wondering, before he snaps himself back to attention. "How long?"

This is not the time or the place—it's _definitely_ not the place. Bruce takes another step from the wall, and another. Dick doesn't back away. "I'd rather have this conversation in private," Bruce says quietly.

Dick nods, unclipping a grapnel gun from his belt. He smiles as he holds the other arm out, lets Bruce tuck himself against his side. There's a lurch as they launch into the air, but Bruce's stomach only barely registers the yank of increased g-force, distracted as he is by how catastrophic this encounter could prove to be. He hadn't planned to tip his hand so early; his family wasn't going to know of his resurrection until he was absolutely certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that it wouldn't bring them harm, that his grip on reality wasn't temporary. Then, and only then, would he come to them, try to reintegrate himself into the family. Dick practically tripping on him like this was not part of the plan.

How much should he say? Should he say anything at all? Play it off, pretend that his death was a trick? No, that won't work—someone in the family would have seen his corpse, verified his death one way or another to ensure it _wasn't_ an elaborate hoax, and besides, if he had tried to fake his own death, he would have let the others know his plan.

He'll say he doesn't know what happened. That much is true; while he has hypotheses, there's nothing concrete yet. And then he'll tell Dick to leave him be, to keep his secret from the family, and he'll go back to Clark's apartment in Metropolis until he knows exactly what the hell is wrong with him.

Bruce's boots touch the edge of a clock tower, the actual clock of which hasn't ticked or rung in decades. Dick folds his arms over the bat emblazoned across his chest, the line of his mouth thin.

"How long have you been... back, Bruce?" Dick says again. "When were you planning on telling us?"

"Two days," Bruce answers, looking away, out onto Gotham's skyline. Off in the distance, the lingering lights of Wayne Tower glimmer. He doesn't let himself wonder how his death has affected things there. It's someone else's problem, now and forever. "And I planned to tell you once I knew I wasn't about to drop dead again, or worse."

"Worse," Dick echoes, incredulous. His heart quickens, just barely. "Worse like what? Because I gotta say, going to your funeral, that was pretty damn bad."

Bruce shrugs. "Anything," he says. "Maybe my resurrection was facilitated by some sort of parasite, bringing me to life just to sustain itself at the expense of everything around me. Think _O. unilateralis_ , but for humans. Or maybe there was some supernatural cause—and like hell am I going to involve you and the others in _that_ ," he adds, before Dick can respond. "I won't let you face some demonic version of me. I couldn't do that to you. Any of you."

The cape sighs as Dick moves, stepping towards the edge of the tower beside Bruce. Dick sighs too, but he lets Bruce continue.

"I also wanted to ensure I wouldn't... lose myself," Bruce says quietly. "When I first came back, I was frenzied. Terrified. I lashed out at the first thing I saw. If I had been unable to get a grip on my own mind—I'd rather not consider what I could have done before I came to my senses."

Dick swallows, too quiet for a human ear to catch—but to Bruce, it's as clear as if Dick had simply announced aloud how unsettled he felt. "But you're okay now," he says.

Bruce scoffs. "Two days isn't long enough to tell that," he points out. "I may have full control of my faculties right now, but who knows what might happen tomorrow, a week, a month from now."

"You were planning on hiding for a _month?_ " Dick doesn't sound disbelieving now. He sounds—he sounds hurt, even through the modulator, in a way that Bruce would rather jump from the tower than deal with. When he speaks again, the modulator is shut off, leaving only Dick's voice, stripped bare of pretense, his pain laid out plain. "You didn't think we deserved to know? God, Bruce—I carried you through the damn church, I watched them lower you down, Alfred found you on the goddamn floor—" His voice cracks. "And you come back, and we weren't going to know for a _month,_ or longer. If ever. That's pretty shitty, you know that, right?"

Bruce bows his head. "I know," he says. It was for their good, he tells himself, but Dick's not going to take that. "I know."

Silence stretches between them like an uncrossable ocean. Below, Gotham is deceptively still, the voices from the rust-red building inaudible from so high up. Dick's heart steadies and slows. Bruce sighs.

"For what it's worth, I was going to tell you when I knew it was safe." Bruce glances at Dick sidelong, sees the thin set of his mouth, and looks away again. "I didn't want to hurt you. Any of you. And," he says, "if I haven't already hurt you too much, I'd like you to do me one more favor."

Dick takes in a slow breath, bracing himself. "What."

"Don't tell the others either," Bruce says. "Not yet. Don't tell them you found me, don't tell them I'm alive." He looks down, down, staring at the cobblestone streets directly below. "Please."

Silence. For a moment, Bruce thinks maybe Dick's just stepped back into the shadows, that when he makes his rendezvous with Clark he'll be stared down by the rest of his family— "Fine." The modulator is back. "Fine. Have it your way. I'll keep your secret, for now—but you know that there's only so much else I can do to help you if you keep us all in the dark, Bruce."

Bruce lets out a breath of his own. "Thank you," he says.

When he chances a glance, Dick is smiling, just a little. "Any other favors I'm gonna regret offering?"

He could ask Dick to help him solve his murder. But Bruce thinks of the hunger, of his own unbeating heart, of the nothingness that looks back at him in the mirror. Whatever did this to him could be pose more of a threat to the family than he can justify. "Stay safe," Bruce says instead. He manages a smile of his own. "Keep making me proud."

Bruce doesn't let him reply before stepping back from the edge and taking the leap at a run.

Dick doesn't stop him.

* * *

Dawn isn't for another few hours yet, and from the position of the moon, there's time yet before the rendezvous. Bruce lingers in the shadows until he's sure Dick won't follow him again, and creeps his way back to the rust-red brick building. He paces along the front wall a few times, memorizing it. There's a square of brick that's paler than the rest, about ten inches by ten inches across, where Bruce assumes a plaque must have once hung. The steel door is blank, lacking even a handle or knob, but for a minuscule peephole near the top. Up near the roof, Bruce can see still more pale patches of brick, slightly off-shade from the rest of the dull red bricks surrounding them, which may have once been windows. Whoever lives inside—or doesn't live, as the case may be—desperately doesn't want anyone to see what goes on within.

As if that can stop Batman.

Though he keeps his ears tuned for any distinguishing sounds, Bruce doesn't listen in at the wall again; instead, he maps the front of the building, poring over it for hints of what it used to be—or, even better, what it purports to be now. It doesn't bear the dead smokestacks of an industrial age factory, but it seems large enough from this vantage point to have once been some sort of a warehouse. Later, Bruce thinks, he'll come back over this place with Clark and get a view of it from above. A Kryptonian's eye view, as it were.

The alley is unmarked, or else it once had been and the signs had faded in the elements, but Bruce still commits its bare details to memory—the dark and boarded windows, the buildup of dirt and grime along the ground, the walls. Nailed to one building is a neon sign, long dead, advertising "live nudes". Easy enough to remember, and certainly easy enough to remember his way back. Bruce can access the old maps even from Clark's (mildly inadequate) computer; that's a matter of public record, after so long. Maybe he'll even be able to determine what that building had originally been for, what it's become.

As he exits the alleyway, Bruce hears a door open.

"Anyone there, Claudio?" asks a woman's voice, lightly accented. She sounds almost bored.

Silence. Not even the distant thud of a heart. "No." The deep voice from before.

"Then come back inside before someone sees you." A tut. "Honestly, dear brother, all this nonsense that's been happening lately, I swear. You're far too young to be going senile."

A grunt, and the door closes again. Bruce doesn't let himself turn around. He tells himself that the way his chest seizes is excitement, the thrill of a fresh lead—he has a name now, and unless the tenants of that building have the same biofeedback training as Bruce did, then they're the same as him.

Dead.

* * *

The rendezvous point is along the docks at the edge of Old Gotham, the piers empty but for a few idle seagulls and the single silhouette of a man, staring up at the moon. Behind him trails a cape, curling in the wind.

Bruce coughs. Superman turns, startled at first before his face breaks into a grin. "I was just starting to get worried," he says as Bruce approaches him. "How'd your snooping go?"

"Reconnaissance," Bruce corrects with a flat look. "It went fine. I might— _might_ —have a lead."

Superman's face brightens even more. "Really?"

"Maybe," Bruce says. "I won't know until I can look into it further. To wit," he continues, "the sooner we can get back to Metropolis, the better. I'll brief you there."

Superman nods, all business now but for the smile at his eyes. "Yessir," he says, even punctuating it with a two-finger salute before stepping closer to fold his arms around Bruce.

His heart is quick, excited in Bruce's ears and against his chest as Bruce presses closer, arms around his neck—carefully, now that Bruce knows he can actually cause him harm. Superman's hand is firm against Bruce's back, gripping him tight as they rise above the docks.

"One detour first," Bruce says, and they come to a halt a few stories off the ground. "Just to get a better look from above, if that's okay."

"Lead the way."

Bruce pries one arm away and points towards the clock tower first; it's easier to see from this vantage point, and it won't take much effort to direct Superman from there. The air is cold against his face as they fly, whipping through his hair and mussing it even further. Superman stops above the tower, hovering almost hesitantly in midair as he waits for Bruce to direct him again.

It's tricky at this angle, but— "There," Bruce says. "That red building. I want to see it from above, and then we can go back."

Superman chuckles in Bruce's ear. "You got it."

The roof is flat, plain. No air conditioning units, no doors, not even so much as a rooftop garden. Judging by the edges, there may have once been a shingled slope, years and years ago, but there's no telling how long. They stay several meters above the building, for which Bruce is grateful; if its occupants are indeed what Bruce is becoming, he has absolutely no desire to find out how they might react to hearing Superman's heart—or what, if anything, an old, old undead thing could do to a Kryptonian if they truly tried. Bruce is quick to memorize it and the layout of the surrounding streets, before quickly tapping Superman on the shoulder.

"Thank you," Bruce says. "I won't keep you here any longer."

"Hold on tight, then," says Superman, gripping Bruce a little more tightly himself as he pushes them up, up, and above clock towers and skyscrapers alike.

First Gotham and then the bay pass by below, and then the lights of Metropolis streak across Bruce's vision, dulled and blurred by the clouds beneath them. What would have taken nearly an hour on the ground takes Superman all of ten minutes at a gentle coast. They don't speak until their feet touch the ground in the short alleyway behind Clark's apartment, as Clark reaches behind the dumpster for a small messenger bag tucked away amongst the garbage bags. Bruce raises an eyebrow as he changes into his civvies.

"So," Clark says, pushing his glasses up his nose. "What did you find out?"

"You first," Bruce says, leaning against the dumpster. "Did you get the chance to—?"

Clark stares at Bruce for a few seconds, lips pressed into a slightly exasperated line before he nods. "Yeah, I did. I didn't talk to anyone," he says, as if sensing what Bruce had opened his mouth to ask. "I just stayed above the manor and listened. Dick had already gone on patrol by the time I got there—probably had been for a few hours, if I had to guess, but..." He wets his lips, running a hand through his hair. "He hadn't brought Damian with him," Clark continues. "I heard him talking to... himself, or the dog, I'm not sure."

Bruce's heart can't stop, or skip a beat, but it can sink, it can lurch. "And?" he says, his voice faint.

"He misses you," Clark says as he shrugs into a jacket. He regards Bruce with the same caution as one would a grieving man—and that makes no sense, Bruce is the one who died, he has nothing to grieve for. Nothing but the family he won't let himself approach, out of his own fear of himself. "He... wishes you'd had more time together." Clark rubs his eyes with his thumb and forefinger, disguises it by rubbing his hand over his mouth. "And he wants to make you proud."

Bruce bows his head. The dead, as it turns out, can weep.

Clark takes a step forward, resting his hand on Bruce's shoulder. The dam cracks at first, and then bursts. Bruce grips Clark's shoulders, lets himself break. And Clark—Clark is a saint, holds Bruce against his chest for as long as Bruce can handle for the second time in as many nights. His shirt, Bruce notes distantly, is on a path to be absolutely soaked through. Clark doesn't say a word; he just gently strokes a line between Bruce's shoulders and lets him get it all out.

It's hard to tell how long they stand there, or when Clark's arms had wrapped fully around Bruce. All Bruce knows is that he's tired, that he wants to replace this aching with—God, anything else. He forces himself to draw back, to take a breath, let Clark guide him up to the apartment building. They walk up the stairs in silence, Clark's heart and his shoes on the stairs a steady beat, a metronome to which Bruce can time his breaths.

Bruce follows Clark to the kitchen, sits up on the counter as Clark digs through the fridge for a gallon of milk, and then the cupboard for a pair of mugs, and—and a bag of mini marshmallows.

"Ma always liked to make me cocoa when I was having a bad day," Clark explains, holding up a mug. "If you want."

Bruce can't help but crack a smile at that. Of course. Of course she did. "It can't hurt," he says, sliding off the counter.

"Always with milk, too," Clark adds, filling the mug and popping the microwave open before filling the other. "And this absolutely incredible chocolate that I've never been able to find in Metropolis. Always helped make things a little better." The microwave hums to life, and Clark casts about for, presumably, the actual cocoa. "Do you want to talk about your lead?"

That question's specific enough that Bruce feels only a twinge of guilt in how he immediately commits to avoiding the subject of his encounter with Dick. He'll—he'll talk about it later. The thought of how his death is affecting his children is still too raw to touch. "It's not much," Bruce says, "but the building I had you fly over, I think I might remember it. Vaguely." He wets his lips, staring at the mugs as they circle the inside of the microwave. "It was a hunch—not that I have much _else_ to depend on," he adds, annoyed, "but while I was about to leave the alley that led to it, I heard the people inside."

Clark makes a pleasantly surprised noise. "And?"

"And I heard them talking, but not their hearts."

Beat. "You can hear hearts now?" Clark says.

...ah. Bruce had neglected to mention that specific side-effect, hadn't he. He clears his throat, glancing over at Clark and his wondering blue eyes. "Yes," he says. "But not theirs."

Clark nods slowly. "That's promising," he says, apparently barely fazed by that revelation. (Bruce supposes it's not the strangest thing to happen to him this week.) He cracks a lopsided smile. "At the very least, you've a secret society of the walking dead, even if it turns out they're not the ones you're looking for. Something to keep an eye on no matter what."

Bruce grunts an agreement. "I even got a name for one," he says. "Claudio. It's not much, but..."

"It's definitely something," Clark says, his smile widening. The microwave beeps insistently, and Clark pulls the mugs out, starts spooning chocolate into the warmed milk. "Speaking of not much, feel free to take the laptop and do whatever digging you can. I don't know how much you can find without your big old Batcomputer or whatever you call it these days, but—what I have is yours."

Bruce stares into the rich brown liquid, watches the bubbles spin, and smiles. "Thank you," he says.

"I'd say 'anytime,' but I'd really rather you didn't make a habit of trying to solve your own murder," Clark says dryly. "But you're welcome. There's really no reason to thank me so much, either." He grins. "Wouldn't want you to sprain anything with all that gratitude—" here Bruce casts him a look, which Clark cheerily ignores—"and like I keep trying to tell you, I _want_ to help. I want this case solved almost as much as you do, and if you have to build a whole new computer for cross-references in my living room, then by all means." And the mugs go back in for another revolution in the microwave.

Bruce shakes his head, but he's smiling again. "We'll see if that's necessary," he says. And then, just to see Clark's face—"Thank you."

Clark just laughs. It's... nice; it's rich and low and warm, immediately soothing in the same way a cat's purr can be. Maybe that's another quirk of Kryptonian physiology that Bruce hadn't cataloged before. It's worth looking into, once this case is closed.

The smell of the cocoa reaches Bruce's nostrils before the microwave even opens again, and it's not unpleasant—certainly not like the damn apricots had been—but it can't hold a candle to the honeyed aroma of—Bruce isn't going to finish that sentence. He's going to take the mug of hot chocolate from Clark's hand, tiny marshmallows and all, and he's going to follow Clark back into the living room, settle onto the couch, and attempt as much research as he can manage before the sun comes up. (The cocoa tastes nice, too, the marshmallows balancing how bitter the chocolate tastes to Bruce's over-sensitive tongue.)

There's not much to be found on the building; it was a warehouse, originally built in the late nineteenth century, and had been condemned in the early sixties. There were plans to level it, but city budgeting hadn't been able to take on the project. Instead, a private contractor had stepped in, renovating it into, presumably, what Bruce found tonight. No records of any current owner that Bruce can track, let alone any Claudios who by all rights shouldn't be walking around, and the name _Claudio_ itself isn't enough to go into any sort of rabbit hole for with any hope of finding something useful.

Bruce is pulled from his research by the sound of Clark yawning. Loudly. "I'm gonna try and get in a couple hours," Clark says, stretching. "Haven't actually gotten a decent night's sleep since..." He pulls a face. "It's been a while."

Right. Bruce had kept him up for two nights straight; even Superman has to sleep sometime. "Of course," he says, glancing towards the window, still dark, and then to the clock on Clark's DVD player. He lets himself feel a sharp pang of guilt at the damning red _4:18_ in bright, digital letters. "Sorry for keeping you out so late."

Clark waves a hand, and then he yawns again. "It's no trouble, Bruce, honest. Quick power nap and a nice big cup of coffee after, and I'll be right as rain."

"I won't keep you up like that again," Bruce promises, and Clark just waves his hand again.

"Seriously, Bruce. It's fine." Clark smiles that quiet, benign little smile, and reaches over to pat Bruce on the shoulder. "Help yourself to anything in the fridge, if it'll help—and feel free to wake me if you need anything else. I'll see you in a few hours."

"Thank you," Bruce says to Clark's retreating back.

Clark laughs again.

The bedroom door clicks shut, and Bruce is alone. He stares down at the pale screen, listens to the laptop fan, the faint hum of the refrigerator. Clark's heart, in the other room, muffled by the walls between them. He looks at the blanket, still rumpled over the sofa cushions, and back at the computer.

He managed nine hours of silence before. He can manage barely two. Bruce sighs, annoyed at his own restlessness, and picks up his mug to take it back and reheat it. As the microwave groans to life, Bruce stares into the fridge, lip curling at the food inside. His stomach snarls, the hunger back with a vengeance now that he isn't distracting himself. (He can hear the sluggish hearts of Clark's neighbors as they sleep. He clenches his jaw hard enough to hurt.)

Bruce shuts the door harder than strictly necessary, pulling his mug back out of the microwave and blowing across the top. The marshmallows have melted into the hot milk by now. By all accounts, and by Bruce's own standards, it's absolutely perfect. When he lifts it to his lips, it's—it's not _bad_ , it isn't, but it's desperately not enough.

Distraction. He needs to occupy his attention wholly and utterly until sunrise. That's all. Bruce drops back down onto the couch, placing the mug back onto the coffee table and steepling his fingers as he stares at the laptop once more. There's an archived article, scanned from the Gotham Gazette back in February of 1962, discussing the city's plans for the red bricked building. It was to be leveled, made into a small local history museum, but budget cuts and a shift in the city council had brought that plan to a standstill. Not long after, however, a small family business had bought the building for a paltry sum and renovated it themselves—though for what purpose, the article neglects to mention.

The article also doesn't mention much else about the business or the family itself, only that it had been something of a surprise to the original owners that they planned to fix the original structure, rather than just bulldoze it and start over. There's a quote from the father and owner, one Gustavo Bianchi, about wanting to preserve history wherever possible, that all such pieces of history were precious... and then the article goes right back to its musings over what the building might be used for, the history of the surrounding area, and so on until it peters off to an end.

Bruce rubs his mouth and picks up his mug again, sipping as he scans the paragraphs again. It's not much, but it's certainly more than nothing. He glances out the window, grimacing at the slowly growing glow of dawn. He glances at the blanket again, his stomach twisting as he remembers the smothering loneliness of the day before.

Further research into the Bianchi family turns up very little—Gustavo's obituary from 1974, after which the family apparently faded deeper into obscurity. The obit doesn't even mention his surviving family by name, or his business, only that he left behind a grieving wife. One who apparently didn't quite give enough of a damn about him to have anything even a little bit pleasant written about him in the paper when he died.

For the next twenty-odd minutes, Bruce follows a rabbit trail of persons whose surname happened to be Bianchi with tangential ties to Old Gotham and the red-brick warehouse. Nothing.

 _Claudio Bianchi_ gets him half a dozen Facebook profiles, a cyclist, and several pages of utter irrelevant nonsense before he gives up and shuts the laptop with a groan. The fan continues humming for a second after, and then goes silent. Someone on the floor above is watching a Russian soap opera. Their heartbeat quickens almost in perfect time with the melodramatic score.

The rest of the hot cocoa gets chugged down, and the mug left to soak in the sink. After half a second's hesitation, Bruce goes to the coffeepot, takes out the old filter and sets it up so all Clark will have to do is turn it on when he wakes up. It's the least he can do.

An eternity stretches on as Bruce lowers himself back onto the couch, staring at the moonlight spilling through the gap in the curtains. Outside, below, he can hear a dog barking. On either side of Clark's apartment, the low, lazy thrum of the neighbor's hearts. His own stomach, growling and snarling like an angry beast in his hunger. Bruce stares up at the moon.

Would it be easier if he stood up, if he embraced the creature he's become? Would he ever be able to look his children in the eye, look Clark in the eye, if he knew in his heart of hearts—such as it is—that he'd given in to the gnawing darkness eating away at him?

Could he still do it?

The moon offers him no answers.

He _could._ He's more than capable. He knows a dozen ways to silently incapacitate practically anyone in this building, other than the one sleeping a room away. They would quite literally never know what hit them. Bruce can so easily imagine what it would be like to sate the hunger, to draw the life out of a living thing and make it _his._

Bruce looks down at his own hands to find them shaking. He pulls the blanket up and over himself, tries to quell his own trembling.

This is unacceptable. There's no way in heaven or hell that he would even consider doing anything so abominable. Except he clearly just did, didn't he? And the line between thought and action is only as long as a few synapses, a muscle twitch—

_No._

Being left alone with his thoughts clearly isn't working. That much is blatantly obvious, as is the fact that he needs _something_ to distract himself, to keep himself from noticing the sounds and smells of the living things around him. His options, then, are:

Stay here, attempt more research—not likely to produce any kind of decent results, judging by his current track record—and wait until dawn. No.

Go out until dawn, stroll the empty streets. More than likely would result in an encounter with a civilian, thus negating the whole damn point of trying to isolate himself from polite society. No.

Or, stand up (and his feet start to move), approach Clark's bedroom door until Bruce can hear his heart a little clearer (positively singing with life, that honey-and-sunlight smell—but he hasn't hurt Clark yet, Clark could put up a fight if he snapped).

Option three, then.

The door clicks shut behind him, and Bruce hesitates, but Clark just turns in his bed and doesn't wake. Bruce sits down at the foot of the bed, one leg tucked up to his chest, the other stretched out, and closes his eyes. This, this is safe. Maybe.

If he just stood up and gave in— _he could_ —then Clark wouldn't hear him now any more than he had when Bruce came in. It's not safe. It's not safe, it's—Bruce is shaking, he needs—he needs—

He needs a guarantee that he unambiguously _cannot_ just walk out and devour everyone in the whole goddamn building. Needs something to block out the temptation of it all.

God, this is a terrible idea, but the alternative is unthinkable.

Not daring to breathe, Bruce lifts himself slowly onto the mattress, careful not to shift it too much, and tucks himself against Clark's side. Clark stirs but for a moment, mumbling to himself in his sleep, but his heart stays steady, his breathing slow. He turns, chest pressing up against Bruce's back—this is a _terrible_ idea—one arm shifting before draping itself over Bruce's ribs.

(He's warm. God, he's warm and alive and his heart is magnificently, thunderously loud, his arm is just the right weight around Bruce's chest to be close without smothering, and Bruce can't do anything but drink it in, selfish, greedy, like a man dying of thirst.)

Bruce moves, pressing himself just a little closer. Clark murmurs again, unintelligible for a moment, and—

"Bruce?"

Shit.

Clark doesn't sound particularly alarmed, or offended. He just sounds tired, his voice scratchy from sleep. Bruce pointedly does not think of it as endearing, or cute, or anything but the sound of a man who's just been fairly rudely woken up by an undead house guest, because that's objectively what it is. "Y'okay, Bruce?"

"Fine," Bruce says, softly, as if he could wake Clark up further. "I just—couldn't get to sleep on my own, that's all. If you'd rather I didn't..."

Clark could point out that Bruce had slept just fine on his own yesterday, that he's cutting into Clark's own sleep and the dead man in his bed doesn't have to go to work in an hour. Instead he shifts a little closer, his heartbeat still a slow, tired rhythm against Bruce's back, and buries his nose in Bruce's hair, as if this is normal. "Go t'sleep, then," he mumbles. "Dork."

Bruce lets out a breathless chuckle, the tension draining from his body in the face of Clark's stubborn warmth. "Good night, Clark. Sorry for waking you."

"G'night, Bruce. Stop 'pologizing."

Barely a minute later—Bruce counts the seconds—the sound of Clark's snoring nearly drowns out the sound of his heart. Bruce smiles, and closes his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY THIS GOT ANGSTY FAST DIDN'T IT. But hey, y'all get 2 chapters in a week, so. Hopefully that counts as a win. :^)
> 
> As ever, massive thanks to my dear beta KathrynShadow, who helped me hammer out the panic attack that is the last scene of this chapter, heh. 
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, an oppressive urge to scream into the void? Hit me up @lordvitya on Tumblr, I'd love to hear from you!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Dear brother," drawls the woman, languidly turning her head to one side. "I do believe we have a guest. Be a dear and go welcome him in, would you?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOO BOY THIS ONE IS. YUP. IT'S A THING. Rating's gone up, lads, and there's a fair bit of... not exactly graphic violence, but deeply unpleasant violence. This chapter was hard to write. ;_;

Bruce dreams.

Or—or he remembers, or the hunger has begun to unravel him, or—

There's a warehouse. Half a dozen bare bulbs swing from strings high, high above, casting dancing shadows along the dusty floor. The soft echoes of someone crying bounce between the walls, coalescing into a ghostly chorus. 

Batman creeps along the walls, a silent shadow lost in the dark. His gauntlets palm the walls, searching, searching—his fingers find a slight depression in the drywall, push in gently. He steps back as the false wall splits open, and he pushes the opening wide enough to slip through. Through the gap, a soft red light spills across the floor, casting Batman in muted crimson. 

He steps inside. The crying grows louder. 

Inside is what looks to be a concrete bunker, with almost none of the amenities. A shelf just in front of the opening in the wall; Batman hides behind it, scanning the rest of the room from the darkness it offers. There's a round table in one corner, surrounded by five metal chairs, two of which have been occupied by a man and a woman. Half a dozen long, wooden crates line the back wall, besides which—

Besides which is a steel cage, just slightly shorter than the bunker's ceiling, barely wide or deep enough for a large dog. But three young women have been crowded inside, their faces terrified and streaked with tears. 

The man and woman at the table appear to be deep in hushed conversation—the woman's voice low, rich, honeyed; the man's a gruff, rasping sound apparently only suited to monosyllables. The longer they talk, the more the weeping from the three women intensifies, quickly shifting into something close to begging. Batman coils like a spring at the sound, slipping a hand into his belt, but still he keeps to the shadows, waiting, watching. 

The conversation stops. So does the crying. Batman freezes.

"Dear brother," drawls the woman, languidly turning her head to one side. Batman slinks back behind the shelf, but it's too late. "I do believe we have a guest. Be a dear and go welcome him in, would you?"

The man grunts, his chair screeching against the floor as he stands. Batman takes advantage of the sudden sound, his boots barely so much as whispering against the ground as he slips back through the opening in the wall. 

Batman stares the man down and weighs his chances. The man is about average size and build; if he gets in close, Batman should be able to take him out without too much issue. So much for stealth, but after so many years, he's learned to improvise. The warehouse won't allow him to take advantage of much as far as his environment is concerned, but—

"Come now, don't be rude," says the woman, her voice much clearer than it should be at this distance. She slips out from the opening, leaning nonchalantly against the drywall. Her dark lips curl in a smile. "We only wanted to say hello. Isn't that right?"

The man's mouth twists as he circles around Batman, but he still says nothing.

"There's no need to come to blows," the woman continues. "We can go about this like civilized people. Which is, I must say, a courtesy you have not earned, sneaking in here uninvited." She clicks her tongue disapprovingly. "Come in, come in, and we can sup."

"I'll pass," Batman replies, trying to keep focus on her while his eyes are on her brother as he circles, a vulture in a suit.

The woman sighs. "There's no need to be difficult," she says. "Dear brother, would you be so kind as to sit our lovely guest down?"

The man smiles then. Batman barely has time to duck and roll before he lunges forward, hands grasping at where Batman's neck had been less than a second before. They both hit the floor. The man grunts, drawing himself to a crouch. Batman finds his feet first, and then a handful of batarangs, slipped from his belt into the spaces between his knuckles. 

He casts them through the air in quick succession—one-two-three—

—and watches the man dodges all three with seemingly no effort whatsoever.

"Boys," says the woman with a sigh. "There's no need for rough-housing."

"Shut up," says the man, and lunges again.

This time his hand finds Batman's throat, shoving him down into the floor with it hard enough make Batman's vision spark. Batman swings, clenched fist striking the man squarely in the teeth. 

The man just smiles again, flaring pearl-white teeth. He squeezes, and Batman reaches for his wrist, tries to pry him off, but his grip is unwavering. Batman's vision splotches at the edges—

"Dear brother," snaps the woman. "I think our guest has been persuaded, don't you?" Her shoes clack-clack against the concrete as she walks towards the two men, standing over them with her arms folded over her chest. Her face seems to shift in the flickering light. "You'll behave, won't you, darling? I'd hate for my dear brother to have to kill you before supper."

Defiance, followed by possible death given the insistence of the hand at his throat.

Acceptance, which would give him the chance to collect himself, to assess the situation and get out alive, or else call in for backup. 

"Fine."

The woman claps her hands, and the hand at Batman's throat relents. Batman draws in a long, desperate breath, which is all the time he has to recover before the man grips his cape and drags him to his feet. (His build belies his strength. Too slight to be the influence of Venom—metahuman, perhaps?)

Hypotheses will have to wait, at least for now. The man's hands are at his elbows, and he has little doubt that they could break his bones with the proper pressure. Batman walks obligingly forward, watching the woman as she saunters ahead. She walks like a socialite, her steps measured and poised. 

The wall closes behind them. The woman turns, flashing teeth as she smiles.

"Now, for the sake of table manners," she says, "I'm afraid we're going to have to turn off that annoying little fly you have in those cute little ears, darling—I've been hearing it since you came in, and it is driving me utterly mad. I do so hate when people can't stay off their phones at the table." She reaches up a manicured hand, palm cold against his cheek, her smile turning sharp as she presses a finger up against his ear. "Wouldn't you like to do the honors? I would hate to accidentally rupture your eardrum."

Batman grits his teeth. The woman rolls her eyes, pushes her finger in... and the comm turns off with barely a click.

"Men are so stubborn," she sighs, moving towards the table and pulling back a chair. "Now that  that's out of the way—dearest Claudio, do sit down, I feel so awkward with the both of you standing like that."

The man—Claudio—shoves Batman towards the table, yanking a chair back with another shriek against the concrete. Batman draws it back a little further, keeping his eyes on both of them as he sits down.

"Much better," she says, clasping her hands. "Now, talking of manners, I simply don't know where mine have gone. All of this drama, and I haven't introduced myself. Papa would be appalled." She glances at Claudio with a faint grimace, then back to Batman. "You may call me Clara, darling. And you... well. You need no introduction, do you?" She doesn't give him a chance to reply before continuing. "And, of course, I know why you've tried to sneak into our home. Your... reputation precedes you." 

Here Clara casts a significant glance towards the women in the corner, her lip curling disdainfully. "I did tell Papa it was better to leave them in the sewer," she mutters, before turning back to Batman with her smile plastered back on, though now it doesn't quite reach her dark eyes. "They are why you're here, yes?"

Best to keep her talking on the off chance that she's prone to monologuing. "Yes," Batman agrees, turning his head to look at the women himself. One sits up just a little straighter, her jaw set as she looks him in the eye. "I'm here for them."

Clara clicks her tongue again. "Well that just won't do," she says, standing. Batman doesn't bristle; he looks up at her, utterly calm. "It isn't as though anyone's going to miss them, you know. No family, no lovers, no children. We did them a favor, pulling them off the street." She wrinkles her nose. "They were bringing down the property values anyway, the worthless little urchins."

Batman clenches his jaw at that. "Speak for yourself," he says, his voice cold. "In my experience, human traffickers are as close to worthless as a human being can get."

Clara gasps, affronted. "How rude," she says. "I will have you know we are improving this city by taking these... these wretches off the streets. And we only take the most pitiful ones, don't we, dear Claudio?"

Claudio just rolls his eyes.

Clara tuts. "Well, we do, and that's what matters. Which brings me to you, darling," she says, leaning over Batman, hands gripping the edge of his chair. "I wonder, who will miss you?" Her fingers trail a line up his side, his sternum, coming to rest at the edge of his cowl— "Ow!" Clara jerks her hand back as if burned, staring at her fingertips as if they've personally offended her. "Lacing the damned thing with iron—ugh, you absolute boor," she says, drawing her injured hand back and slapping him across the face. His head snaps to one side, neck aching from the jolt. "Fine, then. Not as if it makes any difference to us, does it? We'll know you soon enough." She beckons Claudio over. "Hold him down, dear brother, I'm positively starving."

Batman kicks his chair back, whirling with fists raised to face Claudio. This is hardly his area anymore—he's beginning to wonder if it ever was—but he'll be damned if he just sits back and lets these monsters continue to prey on the innocent. Claudio sighs, cracking his knuckles. 

A chair flies through the air, crashing into the wall behind where Batman's head had been a second ago. Batman drops to the floor, rolls under the table. Claudio just hefts the table into the air and throws it across the room.

One of the women screams. Batman curses under his breath; he needs to make their safety a priority over all. No matter what this creature can do to him, he cannot put them in harm's way. He takes a step back, taking in a breath as he gets a read on the situation—the women have taken to a corner as far away from the fight as they can get in their situation, good. Clara has taken up a space of wall between one of the wooden crates, absently checking her nails; evidently trusting that her brother can deal with Batman effectively without help. Claudio has another chair in hand, and Batman has only so many places he can go.

This one dents the concrete when Batman ducks out of the way, debris dusting his armor. Claudio growls, leaping forward. But he telegraphs himself, and Batman can roll out of the way easily.

Until that unbreakable grip gets a hold on his cape and yanks.

Clara seems to regain interest then, as Claudio wraps an arm over Batman's throat, his other hand reaching back and twisting an arm against his back. Batman struggles, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the concrete, trying to pry Claudio off of his neck as Clara steps forward, kneeling between his knees.

Her smile is wide and cruel as she reaches up, taking hold of Batman's wrist, her grip tight enough to ache—and, with torturous slowness, unbuckling his gauntlet. "What a feast," she murmurs, holding out his bared forearm. "I almost hate to kill him, dear brother. Do you think Mama and Papa would let us keep him? It would be delightfully fitting, having a bat for a pet."

Claudio snorts. "Maybe. Could be useful."

"Mm. Could indeed," Clara purrs. She purses her lips, bending down and pressing them to his ulnar artery.

Her lips are cold on his skin in the brief moment before her mouth opens and her teeth pierce through. Batman squeezes his eyes shut against the sharp pain, his body going still as she pushes his wrist harder against her mouth and sucks. Clara sighs softly through her nostrils, eyelids fluttering closed.

Just as the room starts to swim, Clara draws back, her tongue swiping across the wound as she lifts her head. She leans in, close enough that Batman can smell his own blood on her breath, and smears her bloodied fingers over his mouth. 

"Such a lovely gift, darling," she murmurs. "Thank you for supping with us." Clara sits back on her heels, glancing up at her brother with a smile. "Would you care to do the honor, dear Claudio?"

"Finally," Claudio mutters. He relinquishes his hold on Batman's good arm, but both the blood and the struggle have been drained out of him. 

Batman lies still, limp as a doll, and listens to the faint, wet sound of tearing flesh. Clara cups his chin, tilting his head up, and a cold, dark liquid drips onto his nose, his cheek, his lips. Chuckling, she pries Batman's jaw open as Claudio brings the open gash across his own forearm down, down, the stale, coppery taste of blood filling Batman's mouth. He chokes, spluttering, trying to spit it out—Clara's grip on his jaw is a vise, he can't close his mouth, can't do anything but swallow as he tries not to drown in it—

* * *

Clark wakes, startled, to Bruce thrashing against him, hands fisted in his shirt. He's barely awake enough to think to put a hand on Bruce's shoulder, shake him awake—will that even work, in his current state of both being undead and having what looks to be a violent nightmare? "Bruce," he hisses. Bruce just shivers, going horribly, horribly still. "Bruce, wake up. C'mon. It's okay, it's just a dream, I'm here—"

Bruce jolts awake, eyes wide. He's barely even looking at Clark at all, almost exactly like that night in the graveyard. Clark puts his hands on either side of Bruce's face, makes him look Clark in the eye. Bruce stills, eyes squeezing shut as he lowers himself back down, draping himself over Clark's chest, his fists still clenched around Clark's shirt.

Unsure of what else to do, Clark folds his arms around Bruce's shoulders, gently stroking up and down his spine. "Hey, hey. Shh, shh, it's okay... just a bad dream. Just a bad dream..." 

When Bruce pulls himself together enough to speak, his voice is rough, rasping. "Sorry," he whispers. "Thought being in here would make things better."

Clark shushes him again, gently strokes his hair. "Were you having nightmares before?" he asks.

Bruce shakes his head. "This is the first one," he says. "Don't know if it's related to being near the warehouse, or—" He draws in a shuddering breath. "I don't know. It could have been a repressed memory, for all I know."

They lay like that for a few quiet minutes, the only sounds shared between them their slow breaths and Clark's own heartbeat. Clark continues stroking the line of Bruce's spine until he finally rolls over and off of Clark's chest—though Clark can't help but notice he's still tucked against his side. 

This is something of a long shot, but: "Do you want to talk about it?" Clark asks quietly.

Bruce sighs. "Not particularly," he says, voice slightly muffled by Clark's shoulder. "But I probably should anyway." Jeez, he must be in a bad way if he's actually willing to have a frank conversation about what's bothering him. Clark rubs Bruce's shoulder and lets him weigh his words.

The story that Bruce weaves for him absolutely has to be a Cliffs notes version; he keeps pausing, grimacing, and turning sentences in slightly different directions. Probably to keep Clark from worrying, as if that's ever stopped him. And especially as if that's going to stop him worrying here, holy hell. Clark thinks of what it must have been like, his stomach twisting as Bruce describes the woman's teeth in his wrist, the taste of dead blood on his tongue...

"I don't know if that was just a dream or not," Bruce murmurs when he finishes. "It certainly didn't feel like one, but I'm going to run myself into the ground if I act on nothing but gut feeling." He sighs. "Especially given how many of my gut feelings recently have ended in thoughts of cannibalism."

Clark winces. He can't know what Bruce is thinking, of course, but he can guess. "You're not like them," he says.

"No," Bruce agrees, his voice soft. "And I'd want someone to take me out if I so much as took a step in their direction."

As much as Clark doesn't care for that particular hypothetical, he can certainly empathize. Isn't that the whole reason he'd let Bruce keep a stockpile of Kryptonite, in case he became a liability? "We'll burn that bridge when we come to it," he says. He pushes himself up onto his elbows, ignoring Bruce's soft grunt of protest, and squints at his alarm clock. "Crap, I gotta go." 

Bruce rolls onto his back, hands folded over his chest. "I took the liberty of setting up your coffee maker last night," he says, a quarter of a smile tugging at his lips. "Should shave a little time off your morning."

Clark pauses at his chest of drawers, glancing over his shoulder at Bruce, whose eyes are peacefully shut. He smiles, heart swelling a little. "Thanks."

"It was the least I could do," Bruce says, lifting one hand to wave dismissively. "Go to work, Clark."

Clark chuckles. "Try and get some more sleep," he says. "I'll see if I can't make a few phone calls for you today."

* * *

In the end, Clark manages to sneak in one during the start of his lunch break, before Lois inevitably swoops in to make him eat actual food. He sneaks into one of the broom closets, heart rabbiting as the other line rings, rings, rings, rings—

"Hello?" 

Clark heaves a sigh of relief. "Hey," he says. "Zatanna?"

"Speaking..." She sounds slightly confused. "Who is this?"

Right, it's not like she's going to get many calls on her cell phone, of all things. Clark clears his throat. "It's Clark. A, uh, mutual friend gave me your number," he says, and hopes desperately that that doesn't sound weird. The closet isn't exactly the most private place to hold this conversation; vague terms and occasional code is going to have to do the trick.

"Oh," Zatanna says, and then, "Phew, okay. What can I do for you? How're you doing, anyway, with the whole..." She makes a slightly uncomfortable noise. "You holding up okay?"

Clark rubs the back of his neck, even though he knows she can't see it. (Unless she can, who knows. Magic is—magic is weird and he doesn't really like to think about it more than he has to.) "That's actually why I'm calling," he says. "Something went a little sideways, and I was hoping you could have a look, maybe?"

Zatanna groans a little. "Necromancy's not my thing, Clark—and even if it was, that's not a healthy way to deal with—"

"That's about as far from what I mean as you can get," Clark interrupts, and then winces. "Sorry. I just—I don't have a whole lot of time to explain. Do you think you could possibly come meet, maybe have a look?"

There's silence on the other line for a few seconds, the sound of paper rustling. Is she—is she checking a planner? "I can swing by for a few minutes," Zatanna says eventually. "Where do you need me?"

This is going a lot more smoothly than Clark had feared. "My apartment," he says, "in Metropolis. I can give you the address, if..."

"Nah," Zatanna says; Clark can tell just by her voice that she's grinning. "I've got my ways. You keep doing your thing. Oh, but first—is it okay if I just let myself in?"

Clark grimaces a little, both at the notion of her using magic to break into his apartment and how Bruce might respond to said breaking and entering if not properly warned. Given that he doesn't have a land-line to contact Bruce with first— "You might want to knock first." 

"Got it. I'll pick up your mail while I'm at it, too," Zatanna says, clearly still grinning. "But Clark, I just want you to know if there's a zombie on your couch or something, you owe me."

That drags a laugh out of Clark that he hopes doesn't sound particularly frayed. "No zombies," he promises. "Just... a really big rodent, you know. He's pretty friendly, honestly. Just, uh, be careful when you wake him up. He's been a little twitchy today." Hopefully anyone who happens to pass by the closet will just think he's talking to his exterminator or something.

"...Right. Great. You might owe me anyway."

"You can help yourself to whatever's in the fridge," Clark says. "How's that sound?"

Zatanna makes a thoughtful sound. "We'll see," she replies. "You have a good one, Clark. Try and take it easy."

"Thanks," he says. "You too."

Click. Clark sighs, leaning against the shelves and almost immediately regretting it as the corners dig into his back. He pulls away, glaring at the jug of carpet cleaner as if it's personally offended him. The door comes open at that exact moment, and—oh thank God, it's Lois.

"You applying to become a janitor?" she asks, a hand on her hip as she grins at him.

Clark gives a self-deprecating laugh. "No, I just had to make a phone call before lunch," he says. "Didn't want to go all the way out into the hall, you know how it is."

Lois shakes her head, laughing. "I don't know about that," she says. "You having lunch at noon seems pretty far-fetched to me. Dunno if anyone's gonna buy it."

Clark rolls his eyes, brushing a little dust from his jacket. "Almost as far-fetched as you doing it," he says, cracking a grin.

"Right?" Lois scoffs. "Outrageous." She grins. "Want to go defy expectations together? They just opened up a fancy cupcake shop down the road from the gyro place."

"That sounds amazing." Maybe he'll snag a few extra and bring them back to his apartment; it's not like they'd go to waste, one way or another. Clark smiles, makes a sweeping gesture with his hand. "After you."

* * *

Lunch with Lois is grounding, so normal as to be almost ridiculous. No natural disasters, no sudden phone calls—it's even a sunny day out. (Which Bruce must hate, if he's even still awake, but Clark's always going to love the sunlight.) The gyros are fantastic as ever, and the fancy cupcakes somehow even more so. Lois insists on making the latter her treat, but she doesn't mention Bruce's death, doesn't bring up the funeral, same as yesterday. They talk about work, about her upcoming trip to New Zealand, and it's... nice.

"You seem like you're doing a little better," Lois says when her cupcake has been effectively demolished. 

Clark is still halfway through his, and his face is absolutely smeared in frosting. "Work's helped," he says after he gets a chance to swallow. (Yeah, his face is a mess, but he still doesn't talk with his mouth full; Ma raised him better than that.) "Gives me something to focus on during the day."

"And you've got your other job to keep you occupied the rest of the time," Lois says, nodding. "That's good. I'd rather you weren't just stewing in misery all the time; it's not a great way to live." She smiles, takes a sip of her coffee. "Besides, sad's a bad look on you, anyway."

Clark chuckles at that. "I'm sure," he says. "I mean, it's still taking some adjustment, but... I think I am doing better already." 

Lois reaches across the table and puts a hand on his wrist. "Just remember to take everything at your own pace. There's no right or wrong way to mourn, you know?"

"Yeah." Clark takes another probably too large bite of cupcake and wipes his face while he chews. "Thanks, Lo."

He ends up ordering another two of the same cupcake—one for Zatanna, if she's even at his apartment when he gets there, and one just in case Bruce's appetite allows him to have anything other than raw meat. Lois raises her eyebrows at him, but doesn't say a word. Thankfully no wrong way to mourn includes making a dinner entirely of chocolate cupcakes, apparently.

Just as the shop's bell rings when Clark and Lois leave, so does his phone. Clark sighs, grimacing at Lois as he fishes it out of his pocket. She just waves a hand, takes the box of cupcakes and gestures that she'll meet him back at the Planet.

Grateful, Clark turns back to his phone, frowning slightly at the words D. Grayson on his caller ID, but that just makes him answer a little faster. "Hey, Dick."

"Hey," says Dick's voice, sounding utterly exhausted. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything; things are kind of... weird, and I keep losing track of time. Do you have a minute?"

"Absolutely," Clark says. He's fairly sure he has a few more minutes left of his break, at least. He can always claim he needed to make an extra stop for something. "What's wrong?"

"Not wrong, exactly. Or, I don't know, maybe." Dick groans. "I'll just start at the beginning. I... I bumped into Bruce last night."

Clark stills. "You did?" (And here he was the one who wasn't supposed to tell the Bat-family. Bruce is a damn hypocrite.) "What happened?"

"Yeah. He was... you're really taking him walking around in stride, huh?" Dick says.

Crap. Well, it's not like there's a whole lot of a point in trying to hide much from a family of detectives. "I already knew," Clark admits, rubbing his temple. "He's... he's been staying at my apartment."

"Oh my god," Dick groans. "Asshole. Not you, I mean—he hasn't so much as given a hint that he's not—I mean, other than last night. I found him wandering around this old abandoned warehouse—but I'm guessing you know about that too, huh?" Dick's tone is more than a little annoyed, but Clark is fairly certain it's towards Bruce, not himself. 

"Yeah," Clark says. "Yeah, I know. He's trying to figure out what happened the night of the... incident."

Dick huffs out a breath, which rattles loudly in Clark's ear. "And he didn't think we might be able to help with that?" he mutters. "Sorry, sorry, I know I shouldn't take this out on you, Blue. It's just he's made me swear secrecy, and it kind of pisses me off, if I'm honest."

Clark chuckles. "You're fine. No need to apologize," he says. "Did you need help outside of your dad being a stubborn idiot?"

Dick snorts at that. "Yeah, actually. Or, well, kind of. I have something that might help both of you, if he's still at your place."

Clark wets his lips. "He is," he says. "What's up?"

"Okay, so. I did some digging into that warehouse, and it turns out he was probably onto something going there," Dick says, his voice going at about a hundred miles an hour. "That place has been the hidey-hole for a crapton of scumbags pretty much ever since it was built. Drug lords, ivory smugglers, mafia families, the whole spectrum of awful. Looks like right now it's the home of a humble little crime family from Italy, who're pretty run-of-the-mill awful people, except...."

"Except...?" Clark lets the silence hang for about a second before he sighs. "Dick, come on. I'm on my lunch break, I don't really—"

"Right, right, sorry. Except for the fact that they've never really made much of a move to expand their borders, so to speak. They seem pretty content to just stick to their crappy little warehouse and..." Dick makes a disgusted noise. "Well, from what I can tell, steal homeless people off the street, after which point they're never seen again."

Well. That does sound familiar, doesn't it. "He was telling me about something similar this morning," Clark says. "Human trafficking?"

"Sounds right," Dick agrees. "Ordinarily, I wouldn't think they were anything other than some exceptionally garbage people, but—well, thing is, the father supposedly kicked the bucket back in the mid-seventies. But I have pictures on the console of the guy from as recent as six months ago, looking pretty damn spry for a dead guy." Dick takes in a breath. "Sound like anyone we know?"

* * *

Bruce wakes with a jolt, and it's—it's dark, it's dark and he can taste blood in his mouth, stale and coppery and where's Clark, where—

Someone's knocking on the front door. The alarm clock next to Clark's bed reads quarter 'til five; Clark's not supposed to be home for another twenty minutes at least, and he wouldn't be knocking on his own door anyway. The mail just goes through the slot in the door, and if there was a package the postman wouldn't knock so damn insistently. Bruce throws the blanket off of his legs, steps into the cruel glow of twilight spilling through the gap in Clark's curtains, and glares into the peephole.

...

Ah.

"You know, I was told you'd be twitchy, not that you'd be rude," says Zatanna's muffled voice through the door. Bruce lets out a breath and unlatches the door to let her in. She leans against the doorframe, smiling. "You're looking surprisingly good, all things considered."

Bruce grunts, too drained from the sunlight and from his nightmares for conversation. He steps back from the door and moves towards the window to shut the curtains properly. That, at least, makes him feel slightly more like a human being—though that is all relative, isn't it. "I'm on a new diet," he says dryly.

Zatanna sits on the back of the couch, eyeing him with one eyebrow raised. "That so," she says. "You'll have to tell me all about it."

Bruce sits down next to her ankle, closing his eyes as he leans into the cushions. "How much did Clark tell you?"

"Not much," Zatanna admits. "Got the impression he wasn't really at liberty to talk shop much. For instance, he referred to you as a 'big rodent,'" she says, complete with air quotes. Bruce groans a little at that. "So, tell me what's going on, B. Start at the beginning."

Bruce tells her. He starts with what he remembers of his patrol, skips over the possibly-dream from this morning (and this afternoon, repeating in his sleep like a punishment—) for now. He tells her what it was like to wake up, to be smothered by the earth itself. He tells her about how Clark has helped him, and she smiles knowingly; he tells her about the recon mission at the red warehouse, the woman and the man called Claudio—and then he describes his dream. 

Like with Clark, though, he doesn't give her every detail. How it had been to feel those teeth pierce him, how helpless he'd felt as the blood dripped down his throat—they don't need to know that. That memory can burn itself to ash inside him.

"Well," Zatanna says slowly when he finishes. "I think you know what I'm going to say, Bruce."

Bruce sighs. "Yeah. I know."

"Vampires aren't exactly my wheelhouse," she continues, "but I'll help you however I can. Which includes getting in touch with people whose wheelhouse this is."

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and looks up at her. "Whatever you can do, I appreciate it," he says. 

Zatanna pats Bruce's shoulder and drops down to the actual sofa cushion. "I might be able to do something to help out that sunlight fatigue you're having," she says, "and I can probably whip up some kind of substitute to help with the... cravings. How's that right now, by the way?" 

"I'm not on the brink of eating you, if that's what you're asking," Bruce says, glancing at her sidelong. Zatanna grins. "It's... easier," he continues, "when I'm not on my own. Being alone with my thoughts for too long—it gets to be all I can think about." He reaches for the bottle of iron supplements on the table and pours a handful into his palm. "This helps, too, but just to take the edge off the hunger. I'm absolutely goddamn ravenous otherwise. It—" 

The door opens, and Clark steps through, holding a small cardboard box and looking like he just walked in on something he shouldn't have. Zatanna waves. 

"Hi," says Clark. "I, uh. Got cupcakes, if you want them."

"You no longer owe me," Zatanna declares, standing up and relieving him of the box. The smell of chocolate fills Bruce's nostrils, and he grimaces a little. "On a related note, you've definitely got a vampire bat infestation in here," she adds with a sly grin. "But he seems pretty relaxed, given the circumstances."

"Relaxed," Clark says, raising his eyebrows as he glances at Bruce. "Uh-huh." Bruce gives him a look. Clark just smiles, pulling up a chair from his dinner table and setting it across the coffee table from the sofa. "So, that's the diagnosis, huh?"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "If you so much as think the words 'I told you so'..." he threatens. Clark just puts up his hands.

Zatanna rests her ankle on her knee as she opens the box, whistles at its contents. She glances back up at Clark a second later, her expression simultaneously bemused and on the brink of laughter. "You got a chocolate cupcake for a vampire, Clark? Really?"

Clark coughs. "I mean, I wasn't about to go and get a Tupperware container full of blood or something," he says. "Not when we weren't sure yet, especially."

"And you're not going to," Bruce says firmly. "I refuse to hurt anyone for this, and I'm not going to take resources from hospitals that need it."

Clark's mouth twists a little at that, but he doesn't argue. "So," he says, turning to Zatanna, whose mouth is full of cupcake. "What should we do?"

Zatanna coughs a little, holds up a hand. "That depends," she says. "If you're looking for a cure, you're probably not gonna find one—that's something nobody's been able to manage since we knew that vampires even existed. I mean," she adds, wincing, "outside of the obvious stuff. Iron, hawthorn, et cetera. But that's not so much a cure as a... permanent solution." 

"Not happening," says Clark, before Bruce can so much as open his mouth. "Not unless Bruce loses himself. Which I'm not going to let happen, either."

"That's sweet, Clark," Zatanna says, leaning back, "but that's not really your decision, is it?" She glances at Bruce, who sighs.

"I wouldn't ask either of you to do it," Bruce says quietly. "But, like you said, that's not what we're looking for right now." He sits back, folding his hands behind his head. "Zatanna told me she might have a few small fixes, before you got here. Different substitutes to slake the thirst, things like that. For now, that's all I need. Something to keep me from crossing the line."

"Which I somehow doubt you'd actually do, anyway," Zatanna interjects, gently nudging him in the ribs. 

"As much as I appreciate your faith in me—both of you," Bruce says, "I'm not willing to gamble lives on my own self-control." Last night had been an unbearable near-miss, in his mind, one that he can't afford to have again. "And I can't keep putting the weight on you to keep me from losing it," he adds, looking at Clark. 

"I keep telling you, I don't mind—"

"Eventually," Bruce interrupts, "I want to be able to return to the Cave, resume operation in Gotham. I can't be depending on you to be some sort of big Kryptonian teddy bear if I'm supposed to manage this on my own, Clark."

Zatanna raises her eyebrows at that, but (thank God) doesn't question it. "Well, boys, as fun as it's been—and as much as I appreciate the treats," she adds, lifting her now empty cupcake wrapper as if proposing a toast, "I've got stuff to do, and I'm sure you do too. For one, I need to call somebody who can maybe help you out a little more," she says, nodding towards Bruce. "So let's get you that sun-screen and a little fake blood so I can head out and leave you to it?"

There's... something in her tone there, and Bruce isn't sure what it is or whether he particularly appreciates it. "Don't let us keep you," he says dryly.

Zatanna winks. "No worries, B. It's not like my commutes take all that long." She stands up, gesturing for Bruce to take up her space on the couch. "This'll work better if you lie down."

Biting back a remark about being sawed in half, Bruce obliges, folding his hands over his stomach. Clark stands up, edging back towards his room, but he keeps his eyes trained on Bruce, his face tight. Zatanna produces her wand, muttering to herself as she moves it through the air up and down Bruce's body. His skin prickles, almost itchy, for a few seconds, and then—

"Is that it?" asks Clark. 

"Yep. Most of that was just to make sure it stuck, honestly," Zatanna says. "As for the other stuff—got any good containers for soup?"

* * *

As it turns out, Clark has several containers for soup, all of which end up full of thick, crimson fluid within about five minutes. It smells—it smells just the faintest shade too sweet, and not nearly as rich as—but it'll do, Bruce tells himself. It'll do. He cradles one of the containers between his hands, takes a tentative sip, and God, it's as if all the hunger and tension has just evaporated, draining from his stomach and chest with just that taste. (If a substitute is this satisfying, how much more so would the real thing?

...What the fuck is wrong with him?)

"Thank you for all your help, Zatanna," Clark is saying. "You can, uh. You can take the other one, too, if you want."

Zatanna laughs. "Food doesn't really travel well with me," she says, "but thanks for the offer. There's no need to be thanking me, either—I'm glad you guys came to me. And Clark?" she adds. 

"Hm?"

"Thank you," she says. "For taking care of him." Zatanna smiles, reaching up to pat Clark on the cheek, before turning back towards Bruce. "How's it taste, B?"

"Like relief," Bruce says, screwing the lid back on the container before he drinks the whole thing. "Thanks, Zee."

Zatanna kisses him on the cheek. "Don't mention it," she says warmly. "Need anything else before I go?"

Bruce licks his lips until he's sure there's no smear, runs a hand over his mouth just to be sure. "There is one thing," he says.

"Shoot."

Bruce sits up, looks her in the eye. "Can you give me a heartbeat?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, HUGE THANKS to my dear beta KathrynShadow for being a dear and just all around lovely person. And to all y'all, feeding my ego with lovely comments and kudos and so forth. <3  
> Also, in case there's any confusion: Claudio, Clara, and the rest of of the family (who will make their appearances on-screen soon, don't you worry) are my own invention, because I can. And wow I managed to skeeve myself out with Clara on her first go—good job, me.  
> Questions, comments, concerns, an uncontrollable urge to scream into an endless void that won't judge you? Hit me up @ lordvitya over on the Tumblr. All the cool kids are doing it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce casts him an only slightly withering look, but Clark just smiles. "You can have mine—if you want," he adds.  
> It's just poor wording, Bruce knows that. But conscious as he is that Clark is only offering to donate a simple sound to help create a facsimile of life—he isn't offering his actual heart, literally or figuratively—Bruce feels, with a sudden, worrying flare, as though he's standing on the edge of an understanding, vast and unknown, that he's only barely able to comprehend. The depths of the deep sea, with all its dangers and predators, and he's just about to jump in.  
> He hurriedly shelves that thought to be examined later. They have other things to worry about right now.

Zatanna frowns, confused. "That's not really my—"

"I'm not asking you to get my heart going again," Bruce clarifies, putting up a hand as he places the container of artificial blood on the table. (He catches Clark grimacing a little at that, makes a note to discuss blood-related boundaries later.) "Just an auditory illusion—maybe a tactile one, too, if you can manage it. Something to give the impression that I'm not... what I am."

Clark, still standing at the back of the room, shifts his weight and folds his arms over his chest. "We're the only ones who know that anyway, Bruce," he points out. "The night out you and I had yesterday is pretty solid proof that you don't really need to put that much effort into... passing, for lack of a better word."

As if to punctuate the reality of what he's become, Bruce leans back in again, picks the Tupperware off the table, and looks Clark dead in the eye while he drinks. While he sips, he considers how he wants to phrase his reasoning—say too little, and Clark will just keep pointing out how unnecessary it is, and it'd be difficult to frame this as a matter of sentimentality. Out of all the things he hates about this transformation, his lack of a pulse falls fairly far down the list. Say too much, however, and the both of them will find some way to keep him locked up in this apartment until they can talk him out of it.

But Bruce knows—has known, in the back of his mind, since he woke up from the nightmare—that he won't be able to rest until he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, whether that dream was just his mind scrabbling for connections, or an actual memory brought on by his proximity to the warehouse the night before. He has to go back. He has to go back and, if possible, confront whatever monsters live behind that steel door.

If the people he heard that night really are just like him, then he can't risk them knowing he's one of them so soon. God only knows what they might do to new—converts. There's little way of knowing, without consulting an actual expert, what sort of powers these monsters could possess.

Better to let them think him still human, at least at the start.

"If I want to actually go out and live like a normal person," Bruce says, licking his lips as he screws the cap back on, "I don't want to tip off anyone with senses like yours and mine— _ especially _ if I'm ever going to consider integrating myself back into the League." Which, admittedly, is looking less and less likely by the minute, but the hope of it should at least appease Clark a little. "Someone like Kara, for instance, would be able to pick up on it, and I'd rather try to prevent whatever kind of panic  _ that _ could start."

(Though, really, "Batman is secretly a vampire" is one of the tamer rumors about him that he can think to have spreading through the League.)

"I could set up a pretty convincing illusion," Zatanna says, tapping her chin. "Dunno how many people with super-hearing you're planning on bumping into in the near future, though."

Bruce shrugs. "You never know," he says. "And besides, this way I'm not calling you again in six months just for another spell. Best to just get it all done in one go."

Zatanna raises an eyebrow at that. "Yeah, because it'd be so terrible to actually get to see an old friend once in a blue moon," she says. 

"You're a busy woman," Bruce says, smirking crookedly, "I assume."

Zatanna rolls her eyes. "I know how to make time for people I care about," she says. Bruce appreciates that she doesn't actually say  _ unlike some people _ aloud, though he can't help but project the implication anyway. "But if you really just want to get this out of the way right now, then sure. I can do that."

Thank God she isn't inclined to draw that debate out. Bruce puts the container of fake blood on the floor this time, which seems to bother Clark slightly less. "Tell me what you need."

"Not much," Zatanna says with a shrug. "Though if you want this to be able to fool someone like Clark or Kara, it'd be better to have it linked up to an actual person's heart, so to speak—kind of a live echo of whoever you use, so it's not just a completely even beat all the time."

"As if that'd be any different than normal," Clark says dryly. Bruce casts him an only slightly withering look, but Clark just smiles. "You can have mine—if you want," he adds.

It's just poor wording, Bruce knows that. But conscious as he is that Clark is only offering to donate a simple sound to help create a facsimile of life—he isn't offering his actual heart, literally or figuratively—Bruce feels, with a sudden, worrying flare, as though he's standing on the edge of an understanding, vast and unknown, that he's only barely able to comprehend. The depths of the deep sea, with all its dangers and predators, and he's just about to jump in.

He hurriedly shelves that thought to be examined later. They have other things to worry about right now.

"If you're okay with it," Bruce says. He raises an eyebrow. "I know how you feel about magic." (And that just opens up a whole other mess of issues, doesn't it, that Clark would so readily volunteer?)

"As long as it's not going to affect my actual heart," Clark says, rubbing the back of his neck. "Which—it isn't going to, right, Zatanna?"

Zatanna shakes her head, and it's fairly obvious she's trying not to laugh. "Nah, just think of it like... like a recording," she says. "I'd be recording your heartbeat and pretty much instantaneously playing the illusion back on Bruce."

Clark nods. "See, that doesn't sound so bad," he says, as if it's Bruce that needs convincing. "It'll be fine."

"Of course it will," says Zatanna. She draws her wand out again, using it to beckon Clark over. As concerned as he looks by the gesture, Clark obeys, standing awkwardly next to the couch. Zatanna puts a hand on her hip. "If you boys wouldn't mind sitting a little closer to each other, that'll make my job easier." 

Bruce obligingly scoots to the side, careful not to knock the fake blood over. There's a single, deep breath's worth of hesitation before Clark sits down beside him, his knee brushing Bruce's. The tension in Clark's body is practically palpable, his heartbeat a pounding drum in Bruce's ears. For all his assurance, he's still definitely nervous—so Bruce rests a hand on his knee in the hopes that that might soothe him, at least a little. (He can feel Clark's warmth through his slacks, and he tells himself that it's the reminder of life that makes his dead heart ache.)

It seems to ease the tension, if only slightly, but Bruce is still hyper-conscious of Clark's rabbiting heart. "If you don't want to do this," Bruce whispers, "I won't be angry if you need to back down. I promise."

"It's fine," Clark says. "I'll be fine."

"You will," Bruce assures him.

"When you're ready," says Zatanna, and when Bruce glances up at her she's looking at him a little more pointedly than he's strictly comfortable with. "This'll only take a minute, promise."

Clark nods briskly. "Do it."

* * *

 

Zatanna lifts her wand, murmuring almost to herself as she moves it from Clark to Bruce and back, again, and again, like a pendulum—or, perhaps more appropriately, a metronome. She presses the tip of the wand to Clark's chest, just above his heart. (To Clark's credit, he only flinches a little.)  Her free hand rests, fingers spread, over Bruce's, her incantation growing steadily louder in his ears. 

It's gradual at first, a steady swell of sound as the illusory echo of Clark's heartbeat intensifies through Bruce. Slowly, it grows louder, until the echo is just as clear and vivid as Clark's own pulse, with barely even a millisecond's delay. If Bruce concentrates, he can feel the tactile illusion under Zatanna's palm, slightly out of sync with her own heart.

And—just like that, it's over. Zatanna leans back, arms crossed, looking quite pleased with herself. "Hold your applause," she says, grinning. "I know, I know, I'm amazing."

Bruce rolls his eyes. "I knew you could do it," he says. "I wouldn't have had Clark call you otherwise."

Zatanna swats him gently on the arm. "Wouldn't kill you to give a genuine compliment every so often, B," she says. "But hey, you're welcome."

Clark shifts. When Bruce glances over, he has a finger to his pulse, as if to check it's still going. "Right, that was painless," he says to himself. Clearing his throat, he stands, glances between Zatanna and Bruce. "Thanks, Zatanna."

Zatanna just pats him on the arm, her expression warming. "I'd say 'anytime', but I'd really rather not make a habit of having my friends turning into blood-sucking undead."

Bruce grunts. "I'm right here," he says.

"I'm going to head back home," Zatanna continues, ignoring him. She mutters something, and a—a stack of multi-colored Post-Its materializes out of thin air, not that the innocuousness of it all keeps Clark from startling again. "Got a couple other people you can call up, if you want—and, you know, if you haven't already called anyone else. And if you need anything else from  _ me _ ..." she adds.

"You'll be the first to know," Bruce says, finally shifting a few inches away from Clark. Zatanna nods briskly, smiling down at both of them, and vanishes with a quiet  _ pop _ and the fluttering of paper as the stack of Post-Its falls to the floor. 

Bruce turns back to Clark, who's still looking more than a little rattled. "You okay?" 

"Yeah, yeah," Clark says, waving a hand. "That really didn't even feel like much, just—kind of unsettling, you know." He wrinkles his nose. "Still is, a little, if I'm honest. I can hear my own heart  _ twice _ ." 

"It won't be an issue once I can move back to Gotham," Bruce promises. He gives a wry smile. "You can have your heart all to yourself then."

"Ha, ha," Clark says, rolling his eyes. He takes in a slow breath, his heart starting to level itself out a bit already. "Are you really thinking about reintegrating into the League? Not that I don't think it's a good idea," he's quick to add. "Just... seems a little far into the long-term, even for you."

Bruce shrugs. "Ideally, yes," he says. "I'd like to wait a while first, of course—for one thing, there's no telling how being up in orbit would affect the sunlight fatigue—but be lying if I said I wouldn't eventually miss it." Which is technically true, if a bit more honest than he's used to being.

Clark frowns. "Who are you and what have you done with Batman?" he asks, and his tone is as friendly and joking as ever, but Bruce can't help but get the sense of a jig being up, which only gets worse when Clark keeps talking. "Seriously, Bruce, is that it? Because I feel like there are easier ways of letting them know what's going on than this—hell, you'd be doing the exact opposite from the start, which isn't exactly going to put everybody at ease any faster."

"It'll be easier to acclimate people to the idea that I've changed if I don't walk onto the Watchtower as a walking corpse first," Bruce says firmly. "At which point, if it really makes you uncomfortable, we can ask Zatanna to remove the illusion."

Clark waves his hand again, shaking his head vigorously. "It's not that," he says. "I mean—okay, it is a little that, but I'll get used to it. I just find it hard to believe that you'd go to the trouble of asking for a mimic pulse just because you'll miss the League  _ eventually. _ Frankly, I'd more pictured the rest of us having to drag you kicking and yelling out of your Cave of Brooding with how gloomy this has made you."

"It's just called the Cave," Bruce mutters, rolling his eyes. Aloud, he adds: "Really, Clark, is it  _ that _ hard to believe that I'd gotten used to working with the League?"

"Yes," Clark says instantly, mouth playing at a smirk he isn't quite allowing himself yet. "C'mon, Bruce. There's something else going on here, isn't there?"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "You won't believe me until I say yes," he points out.

"Well, yes, but only because I know you," Clark says. He leans in, negating the distance Bruce had put between them. "Bruce, if I'm going to keep helping you with your... condition, we're going to have to be honest with each other." Which Bruce naturally reads to mean  _ you're going to have to be honest with me, _ given that Clark barely has a dishonest molecule in his body, let alone an entire bone. "Please."

Bruce lowers his hand, but doesn't look at Clark. He already knows the pleading expression that's surely on Clark's face, the way his brow furrows, the pinch at the corners of his eyes. He doesn't need to see it for himself. And he most certainly doesn't need to see whatever look Clark will absolutely give him if he actually divulges his plans, which doesn't leave him too many options left.

"This might come as a shock to you, Clark," Bruce says, "but I do still have a few emotions rattling around." He ignores Clark's quiet snort. "Feeling like—like this, like a facsimile of life, it's..." Drawing in a deep breath (that he doesn't even need, God), Bruce runs a hand through his hair and then immediately smooths it back again. "I won't say it's the worst experience I've ever had. Hell, even dying itself wasn't the worst thing, if I'm honest." At least when you die, all that awaits, that he can remember, is silence and darkness—but standing on the other side of that, watching the people he loves go on into the dark and leave him behind? That, he thinks, has been the worst. "But it's draining me, knowing... knowing what I've become." He dares a glance at Clark now, and the look in his eyes is so gently sympathetic it makes Bruce ache a little, for reasons he absolutely refuses to examine any further.

"The first night I was here, you asked me what I wanted," Bruce continues, his voice soft. "My answer is still the same. I want to feel alive again."

Clark's hand is on Bruce's shoulder then, warm and grounding, and Bruce feels entirely justified in resting his fingers across Clark's to keep him there a moment. He's had a shit week; he's earned at least this, hasn't he?

"I'm sorry for pressing so hard," Clark says quietly, his heart rate relaxing. "I guess I just thought—I don't know." He chuckles. "I guess I'm just used to you having about ten ulterior motives at any given moment, huh?"

Bruce cracks a fraction of a smile, doesn't let himself feel relieved that his deception has gone unnoticed. "You're learning."

* * *

 

There are components that need to be put into place before Bruce can fully consider putting any sort of plan into motion. He needs to go back to that warehouse; he knows that much for certain. First, then, is the how, as he refuses to ask Clark to carry him again. A ferry across the bay? Would the makeup he and Clark procured hold up if he simply swam? Even if so, drying off would be an issue—civilians, even ones most determined to keep their heads down, will question a homeless man completely drenched head to toe in rancid bay water. Not swimming, then. 

Second, what to do when he arrives. Find a good vantage point, and watch for any activity, undead or otherwise. Take note of who goes in and who goes out. Avoid confrontation if possible until he can determine what skillsets his opponents possess. Increased strength and endurance, almost definitely, and possibly more so than he's noticed in himself. Enough that managing to bruise a Kryptonian at peak power might seem paltry—which is why he cannot, in good conscience, let Clark know what he's doing, because there's no way in heaven or hell that Clark would let himself be sidelined, no matter what threat these people, these things, might pose to him. The  _ best _ case scenario is that they would harm him; the worst is that they might make Clark into one of them.

Bruce wouldn't be able to live with himself—inasmuch as he "lives" anymore, anyway—if this same fate fell upon Clark.

Third, what to do in the event that a confrontation is unavoidable. As he exists now, is there a possibility that Bruce could overpower the enemy, strong as he knows them to be? Difficult to determine except by forcing the confrontation itself—see point two. 

Ideally, then, Bruce would take the ferry back to Gotham, and simply watch, perhaps listening for any local chatter regarding the warehouse and its occupants. Confirm that he has in fact remembered the events of his own death, that the Bianchi family isn't just an unrelated crime ring. (And, if they are, report them to Gordon anonymously anyway, safe in the knowledge that they are not a supernatural entity, and ordinary weapons can neutralize their threat.) Note any seams in the family's structure, any weak points in their organization or their skillset that he can possibly exploit. 

And then find a way to ensure they can never do what's been done to Bruce to anyone else ever again.

Bruce opts to take several days to let the plan stew in his mind, to turn over every contingency and variable—and to ensure Clark doesn't get suspicious.

They fall into a pattern over the course of the week. Bruce sleeps while Clark works, and he rises to the sound of the front door. Idle conversation over dinner—rather, over Clark's dinner while Bruce sips at his synthetic blood—and Bruce helps Clark with his dishes even when Clark insists that they're not his responsibility and he's a guest anyway, dagnabbit (and then Bruce laughs, really laughs, because who else says  _ dagnabbit _ without a hint of irony). Sometimes Clark will try and watch television for a little while, until he hears a cat in a tree somewhere in South Korea (presumably), or he'll lie on the couch and read a book, his heart and breathing slow and lazy. If there's no disasters, Clark goes to bed at a reasonable ten p.m., and Bruce sets up the coffee pot for him before following, in the hopes that Clark's warmth is enough to stave off the lingering hunger—the hunger, and the nightmares. Dawn breaks, and they start the cycle again.

It should feel intrusive, Bruce thinks, to see the rhythm of Clark's life so closely. Instead, he finds it comfortable—comforting, even, to simply slot into the routine like there's nothing unusual about this scenario, like a dead man living in Clark's home is the most normal thing in the universe. Clark, for his part, doesn't seem to mind, even when Bruce's nightmares make him toss and turn and thrash like he's wrestling the devil himself.

The nightmares do come, even in Clark's presence. The night at the warehouse, but it always seems to change—Clara tears out his throat with razor-sharp teeth, or else her bare hands, tipped with claws dripping black ichor, yank out his still-beating heart even as her bloodied lips press coldly to his own. Every time, Clark is there at the end, clutching him close, his voice a low murmur in Bruce's ear, broad, warm hands on his shoulders, his back, soothing him until he feels himself again. And he doesn't ask, he just lets Bruce spill out whatever words will make it past his lips, and he smooths Bruce's hair, murmurs little words of assurance— _ shh, shh, I'm here, I've got you, it's okay _ , and Bruce can almost believe him.

* * *

 

It's dark. 

It's dark, and it's cold, and it's silent—silent but for the worms and beetles inching through the earth, closer, closer, ever closer. Silent but for the creak of coffin wood, and the hollow rattling of wasted breath in a dead (?) man's throat. 

It's dark, and cold, and silent, and he's (? is it a he? is it anything at all?)—he's alone, wholly and completely, but for the worms and the beetles. He's—dead? Dying? Buried alive, or near enough, and he's alone with the beetles and worms and the gnawing emptiness in his chest, and it's so, so cold. The earth shifts around him (does it?), the coffin creaks. Maybe he's not dead, but he is as still as the dead, with not even a beating heart for company. Except—except—

Except.

There is sound then, footfalls from above, slow and steady and heavy. And a heartbeat (a heartbeat!), just as slow, almost mournful. The earth shifts again, and there's a voice, soft, he can barely hear it through what must be miles of soil, surely.

He can't make out the words, but he can make out that heartbeat, and it stays, he's not alone—but it doesn't stay, and the footsteps are moving away now, and he has to scream, he has to, can't they hear him, feel how alone he is? But he doesn't have the breath to give it voice,  _ please, please, please— _

His hands claw at the silk until it tears and gives way to hard wood, and then, then he hears the footfalls again, the quickening heart,  _ please, please, please, please. _ The earth shifts again, and that heart goes ever quicker, and he thinks he can hear an owl call, feel the moonlight on his skin,  _ please _ .

The earth opens, and he lurches out of it, reaching, reaching, grabbing, and there's warm flesh beneath his hands now, he's so hungryalonescared  _ please _ . 

(The warm flesh has a name, maybe, that he knew once, maybe. Those bright, frightened blue eyes—did he know them? Was he someone before? Was there a before?)

There's that voice again, clear and there and pleading— _ Bruce, _ it says, and he thinks that that word once meant something, before (if there was a before), but when he tries to chase the meaning all he finds is darkness. Hands, firm and warm and strong, hold him back, but he can't be held back, he won't, he needs, he  _ needs _ —

When he surges forward, the warm flesh stills, and offers no resistance as his teeth sink into it. Warmth, sweet warmth and sweet life, spill forth like a wellspring, heaven dripping out to stain his lips, he cannot get enough. He isn't hungry, he isn't alone, he isn't scared.

Except.

The hunger fades, and he draws away, looks into the face of his savior. But his savior isn't there; the warmth is gone, the light in those eyes. The last expression on that gentle face is confusion, and fear, and betrayal. No, no, no no no no no no—

* * *

 

Bruce wakes himself screaming until his throat is raw. And Clark is—Clark is there, Clark is there and alive and gripping him by the shoulders, shushing him, holding him, tracing the line of his spine, his voice low and warm and Bruce categorically does not deserve him. Distantly, Bruce can hear himself apologizing, pleading, and he knows he must sound to Clark like he's lost his mind. Maybe he has, really; he can still taste the sweetness of Clark's blood on his tongue, feel the warmth of his life slipping away—

Bruce stomps that thought down into dust the instant it forms. 

"Hey, hey, shh, it's okay," Clark says, "it's okay, you're okay. Whatever you're apologizing for, it's okay. I promise."

Burying his face in Clark's shirt and pointedly ignoring how damp it is, Bruce shakes his head, but he can't find the voice to protest any further. Clark doesn't push him, doesn't do anything but keep holding him, his arms firm around Bruce's ribs. His heartbeat is far, far more level than it has any right to be, which means that Bruce's echoing pseudo-pulse is just as controlled as he doesn't feel—just another reminder of what he's become, in the end, but Bruce lets it comfort him, lets its metronomic rhythm bring him back to himself.

"I'm gonna go make breakfast," Clark murmurs, his breath hot on Bruce's skin. (Bruce tells himself it's the lingering terror that makes him shiver then.) "Okay?"

Mutely, Bruce nods, relinquishing the grip he hadn't noticed he'd had on Clark's t-shirt and turning onto the other side of the bed so Clark can get up without two hundred-odd pounds of dead weight holding him down. He lies on his back, staring at the ceiling as Clark's footsteps move towards the kitchen. Absently, he touches his fingertips to his mouth, his eyes falling shut when he finds his lips as dry as ever. His stomach snarls.

With a sigh, Bruce pushes himself back up, forces himself to leave the sanctuary he's let Clark's bedroom become. He doesn't let himself look at Clark as he passes through the kitchen, until his hands are safely curled around a soup container of fake blood, until that smell fills his nostrils instead of the rich honey of— _ no. _

"Do you need anything?" Clark asks, after Bruce has chugged half the container. 

Bruce rubs his eyes, and then his mouth, grimacing when his palm comes away stained red. "Nothing you can help with," is the safest answer he's comfortable giving. 

Clark's eyes are pained, but he doesn't press that issue either, as much as Bruce knows he must surely want to. He just nods, cradling his coffee close to his lips without actually drinking any. Bruce forces himself to focus on that smell instead, and he finds that the depth to which he misses coffee actually being on any level satisfying is almost enough to distract him from his nightmare. "I really hate to do this to you," Clark says, glancing away, and Bruce braces himself. "But I'm going to be out a little later—a lot later, today. Mandatory briefing at the Watchtower, to discuss how we're going to..." Clark swallows. "How we're going to proceed in—without you, in the long term. You gonna be okay?"

Bruce takes in a slow breath—God, he can almost convince himself that coffee still smells appealing—and nods. "I'll be fine," he says, not entirely sure of how true that is. But Clark will just stay with him all day if Bruce allows it, and like hell is Bruce about to even consider monopolizing him like that. (Besides, this could present an opportunity Bruce might not get again for who knows how long—but he doesn't dwell on that, either, doesn't let it color his reaction.) Bruce cracks a crooked smile. "I promise not to eat your neighbors."

Clark grimaces. "Not funny, Bruce," he says. "I'll try to be back before dawn, at least. If you need anything..." His face scrunches up for a second, and he pats at his thighs a few times before letting out a small sound of frustration. "I'll leave my phone here," he says. "Zatanna's number is already in there, plus the list she left us—and, you know. Anyone else you might want to call." 

It doesn't take a genius to get what Clark is hinting at there. Bruce folds his arms over his chest.

"Or whatever," Clark continues, and takes a long sip from his coffee. "If you need me, for whatever reason, just... you know, give me a shout. I'll hear you." He lets silence stretch between them again, broken only by Clark's spoon against the edges of his mug. 

"Bruce," Clark says eventually, his voice still as even and gentle as ever, but just barely firmer now. The stern voice of faint disapproval from on high—and Bruce stiffens instinctively; nothing good can happen of Clark bringing out the Superman voice here. "You know that your family would be ecstatic to hear that you're alive. They're not going to shun you or whatever you think—hell, they might even be able to help you, instead of you just sitting here with my laptop looking for a breakthrough."

Bruce flinches at that rebuke, opens his mouth for a retort—

"And don't give me any lip about not knowing what'll happen," Clark continues, jabbing a finger at him. "It's been a week now, right? You haven't killed anyone—the most you've done is bruise me a little, and considering how much trouble you've had sleeping, I'd consider that a pretty tiny slip-up in the grand scheme of things.  _ Talk _ to them. At least have the common courtesy to call Dick," he says, putting his now empty mug on the counter. Clark runs a hand through his hair, lets out a long breath through his nose. "Look, I wasn't—I wasn't gonna bring this up, because for some reason I thought you would, but—seriously, at least talk to Dick. He'll have been worrying his head off over you since that night at the warehouse."

Shit. Of course Dick and Clark would talk to each other, of course their mutual knowledge of his condition would come up, somehow, because the universe itself is against him—and he can't even take the time to consider exactly how much of a problem that could be, because Clark is still talking.

"He's also a little ticked off at you, last I heard from him," Clark is saying, "which you could fix if you just  _ called _ him. He could even help, with your..." He makes a ridiculous gesture with his hand at his mouth that Bruce assumes is supposed to mimic fangs. "Problems."

"I am  _ not _ endangering Dick by bringing him into this," Bruce snaps.

"I'm not saying you should, either," Clark says, the barest hint of an edge of irritation to his voice. "He's been investigating on his own, that's all I'm saying. He has resources you can't get in my apartment and you know it." He pushes his fingers through his hair again. "Look, even if you're still worried about hurting people, it's not like you can bite someone through the phone.  _ Call him. _ "

Bruce clenches his jaw, refusing to feel at all cornered. All his reasons—excuses, he thinks; better to just call a spade a goddamn spade—are dissolving, and he finds himself clinging to them still. Isolation has always, always felt safer to him, at least in the short-term, and here, where keeping his children from the truth could keep them from stumbling into forces they can't fight (or, says the voice of dread in the back of his mind, push them closer to it by dint of the dangerous, overly stubborn curiosity he himself nurtured in them), he finds himself clinging to it all the more. "Fine," he mutters despite himself. "Fine."

If nothing else, he can use a meeting with Dick as a way to facilitate a stakeout at the warehouse.

Clark visibly deflates with relief, nodding once. "Right. Great. I'll leave my phone with you," he says, moving to the sink to rinse his mug out. "Need anything else while I'll be out?"

Bruce raises an eyebrow at that. "I'll be  _ fine _ ," Bruce insists. He waves his hand at Clark, shooing him. "Now go get your ass to work. I doubt arguing with a walking corpse is going to go over well as an excuse for being late."

Rolling his eyes, Clark puts his mug and spoon in the dishwasher. "Yeah, yeah. I'll see you tonight, Bruce. Tell Dick I said hi."

There's a rush of air as Clark bolts from the kitchen to his room to change, and another as he goes out the door, grocery lists and loose notebook pages flying across the apartment in his wake. Bruce waits for the faint  _ thunk _ of the lock falling into place before letting out a breath, and sets about tidying up after Clark's small tornado. 

The sun is starting to creep above the Metropolis skyline, its light peeking out through the thick clouds of an oncoming thunderstorm. Bruce glares at it, as if that will make it slink back below the horizon. (It doesn't.) Bitterly, Bruce moves out of the open brightness of Clark's living room and into the more easily sustainable darkness of his bedroom. As promised, there's a small dinosaur of a Samsung perched on the nightstand, which only requires a simple swipe to unlock. There's a picture of Lois and Clark set as the background, a selfie that looks to have been taken on the Planet rooftop. 

Unwilling to invade Clark's privacy any further than that, Bruce quickly taps the contacts icon. Despite the sheer number of people Clark apparently calls somewhat regularly, it doesn't take much to find Dick's name—they've apparently conversed several times since Bruce came back from the dead, and he's quick to tamp down the hypocritical spark of irritation at the fact that he somehow didn't know until Clark  _ told _ him.

Calling his own son shouldn't be this difficult. It isn't as if they were on bad terms before Bruce's death, or that Dick will be anything but quick to forgive him for his secrecy. But Bruce thinks about what he (maybe) remembers from that fateful night in Old Gotham, and the way his stomach knots itself at the thought of something like that happening to Dick, or to Damian, or to anyone in the family, is almost too much to bear.

Fuck it.

The other line rings twice before picking up. "Hey, Blue," and the immediate cheer in those two words makes Bruce smile without thinking. "You've got some really good timing, you know that? I've found a little more about the human trafficking ring down at the warehouse, and I think you'll wanna hear it."

"Dick," Bruce says without preamble. "It's me."

For a harrowing moment, there's silence on the other end, broken only by Bruce's falsified heartbeat (relaxed, which is the polar goddamn opposite of how he feels at the moment) and Dick's steady breathing.

"Bruce," Dick finally says, barely a whisper. "Oh my God, you  _ asshole. _ "   
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WHOO sorry for the slight delay on this one, y'all; my brain's been kind of a jerk to me over the past week-ish and I've only just managed to kick it back into gear with regard to this fic.  
> As ever, massive thanks to my wonderful beta and dear friend KathrynShadow, and to all you lovelies who keep me coming back to write this thing, which has... already exceeded the number of chapters I was originally planning on it having, whoops, and is going to continue to exceed it until it's done, whenever that is. Neat. :'D
> 
> Questions, comments, a jar full of confused and sad bees? Bring them all down to @lordvitya on Tumblr (except the jar of bees, please, I'd rather you either keep that to yourself or release them into the wild).


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So, I guess you'd say we're going for a—" oh no—"stake-out?"

"You absolute— _now_ you finally decide to—I've been going behind your back for a whole week, you—" Dick trails off with a long noise of exasperation. "Right, right, not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth and all that. But seriously, why'd you wait so damn long?"

Bruce rubs his temple and considers his words carefully. "I wasn't sure how much you should know," he says. "About what happened to me, or..." He lets out a breath. "How much has Clark told you?"

"Not a whole lot," Dick admits, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. "I've been piecing together a lot of stuff on my own—which has been hard as all hell, by the way, since I've been having to figure out ways to keep Damian from tagging along, or finding out about you, or what I've even been investigating for the past five _days_..." His sigh rattles through the receiver. "I've kept your damn secret, Bruce. You going to tell me why I have to?"

Another silence falls as Bruce sits on the mattress, a hand in his hair. "I know what's wrong with me," he begins. Other than a faint intake of breath, Dick is quiet, and so Bruce continues. "We—that is, Clark called Zatanna over the other day. She confirmed a suspicion I'd had, that—" and there is no use beating around the bush whatsoever here, which is unfortunate given how little Bruce wants to actually talk about his condition—"it's vampirism. I've got a fairly substantial supply of artificial blood on hand to help with the... cravings." One that seems to be self-replenishing, given how he seems nowhere nearer to depleting it than when Zatanna first gave it to him.

He can practically hear Dick grimacing. "Shit," Dick breathes. "That—heh—that sucks. Is it—has anything happened—?"

"Nothing's happened," Bruce says quickly. "I... bruised Clark a bit on accident, but no one's been hurt because of this. Because of me. And I intend to keep it that way, which is why I've maintained radio silence."

Dick mutters _maintained radio silence_ back in one of the most sarcastic tones Bruce has ever heard out of him. "Right. Okay, sure." By some miracle, he doesn't comment on the bruising—maybe Clark already told him, though that doesn't seem likely—and instead just says: "So, why now?"

Bruce wets his lips. "I need your help."

* * *

In the end, Dick just drives by in one of the more inconspicuous cars after sundown, negating any concern for ferry costs or the lingering storm roiling the bay. (Bruce knows he can swim it when the water is calm, given that he no longer needs to come up for air, but he isn't keen on testing whether he can navigate it if the storm surges up enough to send him spinning over himself several dozen times like a rat in a tumble dryer.) Dick is smiling when Bruce climbs in, which is a good sign, and then he's grinning, which is... troubling, and then—

"So, I guess you'd say we're going for a—" oh no—"stake-out?"

God damn it. Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose. "Yes, but also _no,_ " he mutters. "Please don't make me regret calling you."

Dick snickers. "How much have you been able to find out about these bastards, anyway?" he asks. "I'd like to compare notes, but I don't wanna tell you anything you don't already know."

"Not much," Bruce admits with a slight grimace. "The history of the building itself, a few of the owners it's had over the years. The most luck I've had on that front is a few possible names, but they're people who don't come up outside of the context of that warehouse."

"Bianchi?" Dick offers.

Bruce wets his lips. "What do you know?"

"A little more than you," Dick says, shrugging. He takes one hand off the wheel, reaches for what is, even by Bruce's standards, an ungodly large cup of coffee. He's been a terrible influence. "They're an old Italian family—duh—who... well, by all rights, they should all be dead a couple times over. I've found obits for all five of 'em, always about five or six times each. Gustavo, the dad, he's died about six times by my count, about once every fifty-odd years. Aurora, the mom, has another half a dozen obits under her belt, spread out at about the same rate. Their kids have each died nearly as much, but... well, obviously they're still walking around."

"You're sure it's the same people?" Bruce asks, though he knows the answer. Dick's careful enough about this kind of thing; he certainly wouldn't get sloppy investigating Bruce's own murder.

"Positive," Dick says with a quick nod, and takes a swig. "I've found pictures from almost every 'generation'—" and here he makes air quotes over the steering wheel—"and they're identical every time, going back to when the camera was first freakin' invented. It's like they're barely even trying to be subtle."

"Not doctored?" Bruce presses.

"Not that I can tell," Dick says, "and trust me, I've tried my damnedest to prove that this is all some weird hoax. Thing is, nobody's really even talking about it; they've been localized to Gotham for as long as I've found records of them, doing their creepy probably-vampire crime crap, and it's like... none of the conspiracy nuts are even acknowledging them." He glances at Bruce sidelong, a grin cracking his features. "Though I guess in more recent years, they've had other spooky things to focus on, huh?"

Bruce snorts. "What else have you learned?"

Dick takes another swig from his cup and puts it back in the cup holder. "They definitely run a human trafficking ring in that warehouse," he says, "but—and I'm sure this isn't going to surprise you one bit—the victims they pick up, which is mostly homeless people, they never seem to turn up again. There've been a few investigations over the years, the times when there was actually family left behind, and nothing's ever turned up. No bodies washed up on the shore, nothing. Creepy, right?"

Bruce thinks of the women in his nightmares, and a lead weight settles low in his stomach. "Anything else?" he asks.

Dick blows a puff of air out of his mouth, pushing some of the hair away from his forehead. "It looks like the whole thing, at least right now, is run by the two oldest kids of the family, Claudio and Clara—" and if Bruce's blood was still pumping, it would run cold just then—"while Gustavo and Aurora and Roberto—that's the youngest one—seem to have gone into the background lately. Not so far that I didn't find Gustavo on a security camera last week," he adds, and reaches into the back seat for a leather satchel, which he dumps unceremoniously on Bruce's lap. "That's all the info I have on the family so far. Feel free to keep it after we come back; I've got all that on the console back in the Cave."

Bruce pulls open the satchel and starts to leaf through its contents. "You've been busy," he says, not bothering to hide any of the pride in his voice.

"Yeah, couldn't leave well enough alone," Dick says, a grin in his voice. "Apple doesn't fall far from the tree, and all that, even if the apple's adopted."

Bruce glances at Dick, one eyebrow making its way to his hairline for that metaphor. Dick just grins.

The rest of the drive is quiet, which Dick prevents from driving into actual silence by turning on the radio to some mildly painful pop station that Bruce drowns out by burying himself in the case files. There's not much there that Dick hasn't already covered, but Bruce pores over it anyway, memorizing every article, every grainy nineteenth century photo and back-of-the-head security camera snapshot.

Clara and Claudio he already knows—and, if he manages to bring this to any sort of end, he's never likely to forget them, either. Both on just this side of gaunt, with thick, curly dark hair and olive skin. In every picture, Claudio's eyes are dark, somber, and Clara's bright, almost gleeful. As best Bruce can tell, those two are actual siblings, but the others...

Dick's helpfully labeled all the photos by date and by which members of the family appear in each. Gustavo's unchanging face is almost nothing like the two creatures who haunt Bruce's dreams; the set of his eyes is wrong, the shape of his nose too wide and flat in comparison to the sharp lines of his children. Some of the oldest pictures, Bruce notes, only have either Gustavo and Aurora (who, like her apparent husband, looks nothing like Clara and Claudio; her hair is fair and thin, her nose too short), or Gustavo, Aurora, and the two siblings. Roberto, it seems, didn't even come into the picture for almost fifty years after Claudio and Clara were adults, and when he does appear, he looks to be in his mid-twenties. He, too, seems out of place in the family; his face and frame are more broad, his hair dark like his so-called siblings' but thin and straight like Aurora's.

"Not blood related?" Bruce says.

Dick snorts. "I mean, _technically_ —"

"I really do not have time for your sense of humor right now," Bruce says flatly.

"Spoilsport," Dick mutters, turning the radio down. "It's kind of hard to tell, obviously," he continues, "since it's been a huge pain in the neck—" and, mercifully, Dick doesn't draw attention to that one—"getting genealogical records for people when I'm not even sure when they were born. But yeah, just going by the pictures, it seems like the Bianchis were... 'built' by Gustavo over the course of—well, a while. I wouldn't be surprised if he predates the oldest photographs, to be honest, but that's also pretty tricky to prove."

Dick takes his hand from the steering wheel again, taps one of the pictures in Bruce's hands—Gustavo and Aurora, alone, in what looks like an old wedding photo, judging by how they're dressed. "From what I can tell, it started out with just Gustavo. He's the only one in the really, really old ones. Then came Aurora, about twenty years after he first surfaces. I'm guessing he married her legitimately—though, again, couldn't find any solid records of that, either. Then comes Clara and Claudio, apparently at the same time, about... thirty years after that. They all die in a freak accident at sea a couple years later, stick to the shadows for a little under a decade, before popping up again. Roberto doesn't crop up until around the first World War."

Bruce does his best to spread as many of the photos out as he can given the motion of the car, turning the timeline over in his head. "They haven't added any new members in the last century?" he asks.

"None that I know of," Dick answers.

"And they've been consistently operating out of Gotham this whole time?" Bruce presses.

"For the first couple decades, they were working in Italy," Dick says, "but moved over to the New World at around the same time as Clara and Claudio came into the picture. But yeah, since then, they've been operating in Gotham. Pretty consistently keeping up the human trafficking racket, too," Dick adds with audible disgust. "I've tried asking around in the past couple days, seeing if anyone in the underworld knows about the family, but they've either managed somehow to keep under the radar or absolutely no one in the whole city wants to talk about them."

Bruce frowns at that, rubbing at his mouth in thought. "How could a crime family like that go unnoticed for two hundred years?" he says, almost to himself.

"Beats me," says Dick. "But they've managed it, somehow. The most Gordon had for me on them was the intel you got to him before..." Dick swallows. "You know."

"Before I died," Bruce supplies.

"Yeah, that."

"How could this go on for _two hundred years_ and we've only just now noticed it?" Bruce mutters, anger creeping into his voice—at these bastards, for doing what they did to him, to the people they've preyed upon; at himself, for only finding out in the last goddamn _week_. How many people—vulnerable, innocent people—like the women in his dreams have been bled dry and tossed aside in just the years since he took up the cowl?

"I don't know, Bruce," Dick says, more gently now. "But the point is we know about it _now_ , right? If you start beating yourself up about crimes that happened before you were even conceived, I swear to God."

Bruce takes in a long, slow breath—out of habit, more than anything else—and shuts his eyes. Dick's right, as much as Bruce himself hates to admit it, hates to even consider uncoiling the guilt already clenching in his chest. "Right," he says quietly. "All I can do now is try to make things right."

"Don't you mean _we_ ?" Dick says, glancing at Bruce sidelong as he pulls to a stop—goddamn Metropolis's stop light synchronization. "Because like hell am I getting sidelined while you try and get yourself killed _again._ "

Bruce clenches his jaw. "No," he says. "No, I mean _me_ . I refuse to bring you or anyone else in the family any further into this than I absolutely have to. These people—these _things_ are dangerous, Dick. What they've done to me, I wouldn't wish on anyone, let alone my own goddamn children."

Dick sighs, actually going so far as to pinch the bridge of his nose. "And how do you think I feel, watching this happen to my _dad?_ " he demands. "Breaking news, Bruce, you're not the only person this hurts. Hell, I bet if you asked Blue, he'd say the same thing."

"Don't you bring Clark into this—"

"I'm just saying," Dick continues, "we were _all_ affected by your death, Bruce, and I guarantee you every single one of us would be willing to fight like hell to make sure nothing else happens."

Bruce starts to stack the photos in order again, pushing them back into the satchel before he speaks. "You can help me without getting into the fight, when it comes," he says, voice level. "Help me to catalog their weaknesses, build up a plan of attack. But when the time comes, I will do everything in my power to ensure you are nowhere fucking near the actual fighting."

Dick's hands are clenched on the steering wheel, but he concedes, for now. "Wouldn't their weaknesses be the same as yours?" he asks. "...Whatever those are, I mean. Silver, iron, hawthorn, whatever."

Bruce raises an eyebrow at that. "Admittedly, I haven't had much chance to determine my own weak points," he says—and he sincerely doubts he'll have much help with that, anyway, "but so far, the only thing I've noticed is that the sun exhausts me."

"Well, that's a start, at least," Dick says. He grins. "If we can figure out a way to draw them out into the daylight, maybe even us puny mortals could help take 'em out." Bruce's only response to that is a flat look. "Yeah, yeah, you're a strong, independent vampire who doesn't need weak mortals, whatever." Dick taps the steering wheel in a quick rhythm. "I can help you suss out your vulnerabilities," he says slowly, " _if_ you come to the manor for it."

Bruce starts to protest immediately, but Dick holds up a hand to cut him off. Reluctant, Bruce sits back, patiently awaiting whatever fresh hell will befall him now.

"It's a safe place," Dick explains, "and we can keep you down in the Cave until you get your strength back, if any of the normal stuff turns out to actually weaken you. That way, nobody takes advantage of your vulnerability, we can keep an eye on you—"

"I'm sure you have no plans whatsoever to tell the rest of the family about what I've become," Bruce says, grimacing.

"If it happens, it happens," Dick replies, the picture of innocence. "I think maybe you owe the others the truth, that's all."

It's too much to ask of Bruce to have this conversation with goddamn Kesha playing in the background. Bruce jabs at the stereo until the music shuts off and he can have some semblance of peace and quiet. He listens instead to the surrounding traffic, the ambient noise of the streets around them, his adoptive son's level heartbeat. (The hunger, he realizes, hasn't overcome him since he got into the car. It's been hours since he last drank anything. By all rights, he should be ravenous by now, but there's nothing. When he breathes in, he can still smell Dick as clearly as he smells everything and everyone else; his scent is about the same as all the other humans Bruce has been around since his resurrection, but he doesn't find himself having to hold back his carnivorous urges. Familial instinct, maybe—which means it might just be safe to—)

"Tell Damian, at least," Dick says, before Bruce can speak. He reaches over, rests his hand on Bruce's wrist. "The poor little brat's been tearing himself up since you've been gone."

 _He wishes you had more time together,_ Clark's voice echoes in Bruce's head. _He wants to make you proud._ Bruce bows his head, squeezes his eyes shut to combat the sting. "I'll think about it," he says softly. His voice doesn't waver, doesn't crack, but Dick's reassuring grasp on his wrist tightens all the same.

"Okay," says Dick, and lets the matter be. A few heartbeats pass—Bruce tenses, feeling his own mimic pulse quicken suddenly; but as good as his hearing is, he isn't Superman. He doesn't know what, if anything, must have spooked Clark from so far away.

Dick glances at him, oblivious, and smiles. "Your Suit's in the trunk, by the way."

* * *

Something's wrong.

The second Clark is back in Earth's atmosphere, he can tell. Listening for the echo of his own heartbeat, it's—it's off. It's hard to say how, exactly, until he's a little closer to Metropolis, but when he nears the roof of his apartment complex, he understands.

Bruce isn't in the building. It isn't that he's somehow managed to turn off the illusion, or else Clark wouldn't hear it at all, but it's distinctly in the wrong place. Clark is tense, floating steadily over the roof. He knows exactly what he'll find, but he switches to x-ray anyway, scans the whole building.

His apartment is completely empty. Bruce is gone. Of course he is. Of _course_ he is, Clark thinks, because what else did he really expect leaving him alone for this long, he knew there had to be something more behind his request to Zatanna and he just went along with it anyway, stupid, stupid, stupid—

There's really only one place he can think Bruce will have gone. Clark doesn't bother following the sound of his heart's echo; he'll just give himself away if Bruce happens to look up at all, anyway. Instead, he just bolts for Gotham, stopping just short of breaking the sound barrier. (Even if Bruce doesn't happen to glance upwards, _that_ would most definitely tip him off.) Despite how clear the sky is tonight, it's still dark enough that there isn't any commotion down on the streets below when Superman comes into Gotham airspace, though he's careful to stay well below the potential flight path of any incoming planes.

There's a clock tower not far from the warehouse, which looks barely sound enough for Clark to be comfortable putting his full weight on it. So he doesn't, instead opting to hover just above, and watch, and listen, and wait.

The low hum of a car's engine a few blocks away catches his attention, the faint rumble almost deafening in the night silence. And there—there, behind that sound, is the echoed rabbiting of his own heart. _Dammit, Bruce._

Given how much sneaking around has already been done up to this point, it feels almost cruel to creep up on Bruce like... well, like Bruce would. When Clark hears footsteps and voices from the alley below, he drifts down to the street, folding his arms over his chest as his boots touch the cobblestones.

Clark levels his best not-angry-just-disappointed glare at Nightwing—who he really shouldn't be surprised is already in full uniform, but for heaven's sake—for enabling this nonsense. Bruce, though, gets the full brunt of his actual anger. "What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?" he hisses.

It's hard to tell Bruce's expression behind the cowl, but his posture is tense, combative. "I could ask you the same thing," intones his modulated growl.

"For some reason, I thought you'd still be at my place when I got back," Clark says, pushing down his irritation. One of them has to be a mature adult about this; as usual, it apparently has to be him. "Not... whatever it is you think you're achieving by coming here _again_ without telling me." Okay, so much for that.

Bruce is definitely glaring at him now. "This was _going_ to be a reconnaissance mission," he says. "But I suppose you have other ideas."

"Like not just sitting on my couch while you fling yourself into danger _again?_ Yeah, I might have a few ideas." Clark takes in a deep breath, unfolds his arms. "You could have told me," he says.

"You would have tried to stop me," Bruce says, his voice flat.

 _With good reason,_ Clark thinks but pointedly does not say, because there's no way that's going to go over well. "I just want to help you, B," he says instead.

The corner of Bruce's mouth quirks up, but Clark can tell there's little actual joy in it. "Help me by staying out of this," he says. "I don't need these people getting their teeth into you too."

Clark isn't entirely sure if that's supposed to be funny or not. If it was meant to be, it really, really isn't. No matter how much Dick is looking at Bruce with his eyebrows up. "But—"

"This isn't up for debate, Superman," Bruce cuts in. The glower he levels at Clark from behind the cowl is withering, but Clark refuses to be cowed. "Now get out of my way before they hear us talking."

" _No._ "

"Hey, just a suggestion here, but _maybe_ we should take this somewhere else," says Dick, glancing over Clark's shoulder into the dark alley beyond. "I mean, not that I don't doubt you two can deal with whatever's lurking around in the dark, but—" here he taps at his jugular—"squishy mortal human here, hello."

Dick's right, obviously, and that just makes Clark even more angry with Bruce for dragging Dick into this. He takes a step forward, and he can just tell Bruce is rolling his eyes behind the cowl's lenses as he tugs a grapnel gun off his belt and—yep, he's gone. Sighing, Clark holds out an arm to Dick, who grins before wrapping his arms around Clark's neck.

"Don't mind him," Dick says quietly. "I think he's cranky because I'm trying to manipulate him."

Clark snorts as he lifts them both up, towards the nearby rooftop Bruce has decided to huff off to. Dick jumps onto solid ground before Clark has the chance to actually touch down. Bruce, true to form, is looming in the dark, cape folded around himself like a shroud.

"So," Clark says. Bruce's head snaps up, his mouth a thin line. "Just recon, huh?"

"Yes, despite what you might believe," Bruce says. "I'm not going to start an all-out war before I know who I'm fighting. That's not how I operate, and you know it."

Clark puts a hand on his hip, frowning. "And you thought you'd bring Nightwing along and not me because...?"

"Because _he_ has the common sense to stay out of an unsurvivable situation—" Clark doesn't even need super-hearing to register Dick snorting behind his hand just then—"unlike some people I could mention." Bruce's jaw and fists are clenched, as if he plans to actually fight Clark on this. "Ignoring that," he continues, taking a few steps forward, "if the mission doesn't go as planned and there _is_ a confrontation, we both know that these... these _things_ have the capability to actually hurt you." He reaches out, insistently prods at the spot he had bruised before. "Remember?"

"Then who knows what else they could do to _you?_ " Clark protests. "Look at what's already happened. You need backup, as much as I know you aren't going to admit it."

"They can't do anything worse to me now," Bruce says tightly. "I'm already dead, Clark. I cannot in good conscience risk them doing this to you too."

Clark's jaw tightens. "Why would I ever let you risk getting hurt too?" he demands. "For God's sake, it's not as if I'm totally helpless, you know I can hold my own in a fight just as well as you."

"I'm already damned!" snaps Bruce. "Whatever risk might be involved in my going is negligible in comparison to what could happen if you came with me. There's no way of knowing what these things could do to you if they sunk their teeth in you—God only knows what the hell a Kryptonian vampire would even be like, or if your blood has any properties that could make them even more dangerous. And that's if the bite didn't just kill you immediately." Bruce clenches his jaw. "So why the _hell_ would I let you risk that?"

"Because I _care_ about you, you emotionally constipated—"

Clark snaps. He doesn't mean to, he definitely doesn't plan to (he's never even considered this, not really, not consciously) but in an instant he finds himself taking another step forward, hands on the smooth sides of the cowl, and kissing Bruce with everything he's got. For a split second, the whole world seems to freeze.

Bruce is perfectly still beneath Clark's hands, but for the rapid pounding of Clark's own heart under Bruce's skin. The cowl's nose digs into Clark's cheek, hard enough to hurt anyone else. Bruce's mouth is... cold, and for a moment, unresponsive. Clark can just barely see Bruce's eyes through the lenses from this distance, wide and—possibly angry. He draws away and doesn't look at Bruce again for a few breaths.

Dick has the nerve to wolf-whistle. Clark doesn't have the energy to be annoyed; just overwhelmed with the knowledge of how much he's overstepped.

"That was stupid of you," Bruce says eventually.

Clark swallows. "Yeah, probably."

"We'll discuss this later," Bruce says.

Hell. "Right."

"For now, if you can keep quiet—" _and keep your hands to yourself,_ Clark thinks—"we have a decent vantage point for observation."

Clark clears his throat and nods, falling silent. He takes a step to the side, letting Bruce approach the edge of the roof to crouch down. Dick is perched a ledge above, and Clark... Clark thinks it'd probably be best if he joined him up there. When he settles onto the brick and mortar, Dick grins at him and gives him a silent thumbs-up. He points down at Bruce and shakes his head, rolling his eyes behind his mask.

Not entirely sure what to make of that, Clark turns his attention to the warehouse at the end of the alley, narrowing his eyes and switching to x-ray. He assumes that he should speak up if he sees anything—otherwise his still being here is pointless, and after that giant mistake he thinks he'd almost rather be back in his apartment—and...

"Holy..." Clark breathes. "That place is a _labyrinth._ "

Bruce grunts, but he doesn't sound _too_ irritated. "You can map it out?" he says, voice low.

"Yeah," Clark says. "Yeah, I can." From below, he hears the sound of one of Bruce's belt compartments opening, and then there's a small device in Clark's hand: a thin scroll hiding a holographic tablet, followed by a small stylus. Biting back a small smile, Clark starts to sketch out the layout as best he can. He's neither an artist nor an architect, but he has an eye for detail, and that's good enough for now.

"Anyone in there?" Bruce asks.

Clark peers a little closer, then shakes his head. "Nobody that I can see, anyway, and I'm not getting the blank spots from any lead-lined walls."

"Think they're out finding more..." Dick makes a tiny, disgusted sound. "Victims?"

"Almost definitely," Bruce mutters, anger simmering below the surface of his voice. "Tell me if you see any movement in there. For now, we need to keep quiet in case they're still nearby."

Clark nods, more to himself than to the other two, and keeps his eyes fixed on the warehouse. The longer he looks at it, the more dizzying its design is; the original layout of the building is still easy enough to make out, but it's masked by the extra walls and corridors built into the outer edges, not to mention the multi-level basement dug out below. He tries to commit the layout to paper—so to speak—but he keeps running out of room. There's no way the original building had half of this nonsense, so how the hell did this family manage to build it in without anyone noticing?

Next to him, Dick lets out a low whistle. "Wow," he murmurs. "That's... something, all right."

 _No kidding,_ Clark thinks, but he stays quiet and keeps trying to sketch it all out. He came here to help Bruce, one way or another, and he's going to—despite how he knows, deep down, that all this means is that Bruce will have the means to navigate the place when he inevitably does come back looking for a fight. Swallowing his worry and nausea, Clark keeps going, until all the major details of the building have been sketched out, and he hands the tablet back to Bruce.

"I'll look into the architecture back at the Cave," whispers Dick. "They must have had help doing all that."

Bruce shushes him as he collapses the tablet again and slips it back into his belt. Dick gives a reasonably chided noise and doesn't say anything further.

Clark isn't entirely sure how long they stay up there, with only the wind for company. Long enough that Dick's joints must be starting to ache a little, given how he stretches out before sitting on the ledge with his legs tucked against the wall. Nothing else really happens, either; the only movement from below are a few raccoons digging through the litter, chittering as they eat. Which just leaves Clark to think, and subsequently regret.

It's not that what he said wasn't true. For one, Bruce is most certainly emotionally constipated, and for another—and for another, Clark _does_ care for him, deeply. Maybe more deeply than he originally thought. And it's not—he might be invulnerable, but Clark isn't made of stone. Having Bruce first sleeping on his couch, and then in his bed, for a whole _week_ , wasn't good for his resolve, and it wasn't good for his capacity not to read into things. For goodness's sake, just the way Bruce clung to him at night—and he's been making Clark coffee every day, as if Clark wouldn't notice...

If he'd had the time and thought to plan how he'd actually want that particular conversation to go, an argument on a rooftop wouldn't have been his first choice. As far as voicing the thoughts that have started cropping up over the past week, he'd rather—well, he'd really rather not have said much at all; he knows Bruce, knows that he'd be cool at best and avoidant at worst. That's not the part he regrets, though. If he'd thought things through at all, he wouldn't have kissed Bruce. Not like that. He glances down at his hands, remembers the way Bruce had gone stone-still beneath them, and feels the guilt twist in his stomach.

Eventually, Clark moves, lifting a few inches into the air before drifting closer to Bruce.

"Hey." Bruce doesn't respond. "About... what I just did," he whispers, too quiet for Dick to pick up on the sound but loud enough he knows Bruce will. "I'm sorry."

Bruce pulls his gaze away from the warehouse to look at Clark through the cowl's lenses, head cocked just so to the side. He says nothing, but Clark takes that little movement as an invitation to elaborate.

"Not for—but I should—I should have tried to ask, first," Clark continues, looking away. "I was angry with you, and I couldn't think of any way to get my point across, but I still—I should have tried. So. I'm sorry."

"I seem to recall saying we'd discuss this after we were done here," Bruce murmurs. He doesn't sound upset, Clark thinks. Hopes. Maybe this whole mess can be salvaged.

Clark rubs at the back of his neck. "Yeah, and we still can," he says, "God knows I'm not about to bare my soul with Dick listening—but that was going to eat me alive if I didn't say something."

For a moment, Bruce is quiet, and the worry starts eating away at Clark's insides again. "I'm not angry with you for that," Bruce says, his tone unusually soft. "I'm angry with you for making a terrible goddamn decision, not for... acting on it."

A smile manages to pull at the corner of Clark's mouth. "What terrible decision? I've done a few pretty stupid things tonight, by your metric."

It doesn't take much guesswork to determine Bruce is rolling his eyes just then. He quickly goes somber again, his posture tense, coiled like he's going to jump off the roof at any second. "I'm not a good idea, Kal," he says. "Possibly one of the worst ideas you've ever had, and I don't say that lightly. We don't know if I'm liable to go into any sort of feeding frenzy, or what sort of damage I could do if I did, or—"

"I think if that were a risk, you probably would have tried to eat me while I had my tongue down your throat," Clark points out, his smile cracking a lopsided grin.

Bruce sighs, head bowed. "You deserve better, then," he says quietly. "Something with a real pulse, at the very least. It's not that high of a bar."

Clark's hand finds Bruce's knee, and his heart does something helplessly stupid when Bruce doesn't draw back. "We'll talk about it back at the apartment," he says gently. "But for what it's worth, I think that's a load of crap."

The corner of Bruce's mouth quirks up. He opens his mouth to respond, and at that moment, Clark hears footsteps. The only heartbeat he hears, though, is Dick's and his own, pounding from his and Bruce's chests. Slowly, he turns to look over his shoulder, and Bruce follows suit.

At the far edge of the rooftop stands a man in a simple dark coat, his thin, white hair falling past his shoulders. His hands are in his pockets, his posture casual—almost friendly, but Clark still finds himself tensing regardless. Not taking his eyes off the newcomer, Clark leans in. "Friend of yours?"

"Never seen him," Bruce mutters.

"So sorry for interrupting," the man says, his English thickly accented. He walks at an almost leisurely pace, and as he gets closer, Clark can make out a few more of his features—the pallor of his slender face, the glint of pale blue in his eyes. "But I think, perhaps, it is dangerous for you to stay here."  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY HALLOWEEN EVERYBODY HAVE SOME SPONTANEOUS VAMPIRE/ALIEN MAKEOUTS TO KICK OFF THE HOLIDAY \o/  
> Next chapter, y'all get to meet the OC I'm probably most excited to bring in. Hope ya like him. <3
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, a large, oblong reptilian egg you can't seem to get rid of? Hit me up @ lordvitya over on Tumblr. As ever, bless all of you who've left kudos and comments, and bless my dear beta KathrynShadow, who has prevented me from making stupid choices with this fic.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My child," he says, holding his hand out to Bruce now, "I know you must be confused. The birth is... disorienting, no?"
> 
> Bruce hasn't moved. "I suppose you know all about it," he says, voice low.
> 
> His smile then is oddly warm—warm and a little sad. "Indeed I do, young man," he says gently. ( _Young man,_ he says, as if he doesn't look a day over twenty-five. Clark can't help but think he might be so far out of his depth as to be in the wrong ocean entirely.)

Clark stands, his cape snapping behind him in the wind. "And who are you?" he asks.

The stranger smiles, showing straight, white teeth. His canines don't seem all that strange—say, elongated, or abnormally sharp—but that telltale absence of a heartbeat keeps Clark tense. "A friend," he says eventually, taking another few steps forward. At this short of a distance, Clark can see exactly how young the stranger is, and despite the pale cast of his hair, he looks barely older than Dick. He holds out a hand; Clark stares at it for a few seconds before the stranger sighs and slips it into the pocket of his coat. "To build trust, of course—call me Volya." He glances from Clark, to Dick, to Bruce, and smiles again, bowing with a small flourish. "I know of all of you, of course. It is an honor." 

Beside Clark, Bruce is standing up now too, his jaw clenched. Clark hears Dick's heart pick up—and he wants nothing more than to stand between the two of them and this newcomer, but without knowing if he shares Bruce's apparent magical abilities—

"I do not ask you to trust me wholly at this moment," Volya says mildly, "but perhaps, at the very least, you might move away from the edge? Your vantage point will also allow your enemy to see you, you know."

"How do you—" Clark begins, but Bruce puts up a hand to shush him. If that hadn't done it, the withering look he casts Clark's way definitely would have.

"You," says Volya, nodding to Bruce and completely ignoring Clark, "you smell of a little baby. I imagine you wish to know yourself, yes?" He waits, head cocked slightly to the left, for Bruce to reply. When Bruce offers no answer, Volya simply smiles again and nods. "I understand that you do not trust me, my friend. Few do so soon—but surely you know it is best to keep away from the edge?"

Dick clears his throat, and Clark hears his boots hit the roof as he hops down from his ledge. When Clark glances his way, Dick just shrugs. "Not taking my chances," he whispers.

Despite there being no doubt in Clark's mind that Volya must have heard that, he doesn't seem to react. Instead, he steps to the side, bowing his head. "My child," he says, holding his hand out to Bruce now, "I know you must be confused. The birth is... disorienting, no?"

Bruce hasn't moved. "I suppose you know all about it," he says, voice low.

Volya's smile then is oddly warm—warm and a little sad. "Indeed I do, young man," he says gently. ( _ Young man, _ he says, as if he doesn't look a day over twenty-five. Clark can't help but think he might be so far out of his depth as to be in the wrong ocean entirely.) "Come, come, I will explain what I can. It is best, I think, if you see."

"See what?" Clark asks.

"My house," says Volya, as if that was completely obvious. "I will tell you more on the way. What is important is that we leave that place—" he looks down his nose, grimacing, and it doesn't take a genius to recognize he's looking at the warehouse—"far behind us. Come."

Neither Bruce nor Clark budge—and Clark can't speak for Bruce, of course, but he's really, really not inclined to follow an undead stranger to his 'house' in the middle of the night just like that. Out of the corner of his eye, Clark catches Dick taking a step forward before stopping himself, sighing. Volya slips his hands into his pockets again, with an air of cool patience.

"I will make you an offer," says Volya. He gestures to Bruce again. "As you are the one I must help, and the one I must first convince. For every step forward you take, I will explain something to you of who I am, or what I do. You may ask a single question with each step, and I will answer as best I can. Is this acceptable?"

There is silence for the space of a single heartbeat. And Bruce takes a single step forward. "What are you?"

Volya grins then, drawing his hands back out to clasp them together. "Ah, bless you, my child," he says. "I suspect you already know of what I am, of course—your word for our people would be  _ vampire. _ "

Not that Clark's surprised, strictly speaking, but the confirmation doesn't really make him feel any better. The phrase  _ our people _ , too, doesn't fill him with confidence either. How many more of them are there? Is this Volya here to recruit Bruce into some secret vampire society? 

Beside him, Bruce takes another step. "What is your 'house'? I can't imagine you're inviting us for dinner," he says. His tone is dry, but considering what "dinner" means to the two of them, Clark is having a hard time finding the humor in that.

"No, indeed," Volya says, shaking his head. "My house is a—safehouse, I believe is the word. It is where I bring in the children—the very young ones, little children like yourself." He takes a half-step back, presumably to give Bruce room to keep walking.

Bruce takes two steps this time. "What do you mean by  _ children _ ?" he asks. "What do you do with them?"

"The newly reborn," Volya answers, his gaze briefly flitting to the side as Clark, too, takes a few steps forward to mitigate the distance between himself and the vampire. "Like yourself, those who have been transformed, made anew. I bring these dear children to my home to help them... acclimate. Let them adjust to their new life." He regards Bruce for a few seconds in silence, his eyes almost—sad? "Many experience terrible frenzies of hunger upon their rebirth, and they do things that they regret. My duty is to bring them home before then, before anyone comes to harm. I had meant to invite you before now, but..." He chuckles, turning that sad smile towards Clark. It sends a shiver crawling down Clark's spine. "Well. Someone else found you first, I'm afraid, and I could not risk exposure."

Bruce takes another step, resolute. "How did you know what happened to me?"

"Someone you had come to save came to me that night," Volya says gently. "She told me what she knew, and I did what I could from there. I had meant to help you at your... awakening, so to speak, but." Another glance at Clark, and—

Another step. "Were you there in the graveyard?" Bruce asks.

"I was," says Volya. "It was somewhat difficult to know which cemetery I would truly find you in, of course, but—well, it did not slip my notice that two of the city's most famous figures happened to fall dead on the same night. Do not be angry with yourself for not seeing me—either of you," he adds, with a wry smile. "You are not the only one who has become adept at hiding in the darkness, child, and I have nearly a millennium's worth of experience over you." He shifts his balance from foot to foot, his hands slipping into the pockets of his pants now. "I am, however, quite glad that you found a very good friend, who you could trust to take care of you in my stead. And that the hunger has not brought you unnecessary pain."

Another. "You can tell if someone's... fed," Bruce says, not quite a question.

"There is a shift in their smell," Volya agrees. "And, I suspect, if you were to partake in your most available source—" He grimaces, bowing his head to Clark. "Forgive me, my friend. I should not use such crude language. Regardless, I should think that if you were to feed from your friend, it would be  _ quite _ apparent, all things considered."

"What do you mean by that?" Bruce asks.

"I have not myself fed from any of your people before," Volya says, nodding again to Clark, who can't help but bristle a little, "but given how your essence smells, I cannot imagine that one of our own would smell the same feeding from you as they might feeding from an ordinary mortal human." 

How his  _ essence _ smells? That just raises all sorts of questions Clark isn't entirely sure he wants answered. But he still can't help but ask. "By 'essence,' you mean my blood, right?"

Volya shrugs at that. "Some think to feast upon the lifeblood, others upon the spirit itself. It is hard too say, I think," he replies. "Either way, you have a very particular odor to you, my friend—which is why, I think, it is all the more important to go with me to my home, away from those who might bring you or your son—" here he nods to Dick, who Clark can't help but notice has been unusually quiet this whole time—"to great, great harm indeed. I do not wish to have their pain on my hands—nor, I suspect, do you," he says to Bruce.

Bruce grunts. He takes one more step forward. "If we refuse, what will you do?"

Volya chuckles. "I will leave you be, if that is your wish," he says, "but I will warn you, you alone are not enough to stand against the enemy you have found. But know this, that I would help you in any way that I can, in any way that you will allow me, if you only ask."

Clark frowns, taking the risk of drawing his focus away from Volya to glance at Bruce and Dick. Dick is wound like a spring, his fists clenched and his eyes locked on the vampire. Bruce, meanwhile, is more pensive than Clark is strictly comfortable with.

"You can't possibly be considering going with him," Clark whispers.

"He's right about one thing," Bruce says. "We need to get you away from here before they smell you."

Clark wrinkles his nose at that, taking in a deep breath as if he could possibly know what on Earth they're talking about. Even when he opens up his senses as wide as they can go, he can't smell anything unusual about his own damn blood. Or—essence, or whatever. "Are you saying I smell bad, B?" he asks, putting a hand on his hip. He's trying for levity, but he's pretty sure Bruce doesn't take it that way.

For a moment, Bruce is still, unbreathing. "No," he says, "and that's the problem. You smell—" 

"I definitely hate to interrupt," says Dick, sounding very much the opposite, "but I don't think either of us really want to hear about how you think Blue smells right now, and I for one am not all that keen on even more vampires finding us up here. I don't really care where we go, as long as it's  _ not here. _ "

Clark winces. "Right. Tell you what," he says, glancing from Dick to Volya. "I'll take you back down to the car—" not that he's under any illusions that Dick can't find his way back just fine, but he's not inclined to leave the one baseline human of the group to go traipsing through these alleys in the dark if he can help it—"and you can get back to the grind, hm?" No matter how tonight ends up going, he doesn't particularly want Dick to be involved.

"Whatever you feel is necessary, my friends," says Volya, giving a deep nod. "I promise that no harm will come to any of you in my home, but I understand that our people can be... somewhat off-putting to outsiders. I wish you well."

Dick looks like he's not sure if he should protest or be relieved. "It's not like I can't take care of myself," he begins.

"Superman is right," Bruce cuts in, giving Clark a curt nod. "We'll take this from here. You have work to do."

Dick folds his arms over his chest, mouth twisted into an almost perfect  _ S _ . "Fine. But you," he says, drawing one arm out to level a finger at Bruce, "think about what I said, all right?" When Bruce doesn't respond, Dick sighs and takes the five steps necessary to get within arm's reach of Clark. "He's ridiculous," Dick mutters, and Clark's pretty sure Bruce definitely catches it, even if he doesn't respond. 

Clark wraps an arm behind Dick's back and lifts them both up into the air. Dick's fists clench in Clark's cape, but his heartbeat barely picks up. After a decade and some change of this kind of thing, he's clearly gotten pretty used to using Clark as a flying taxi service.

"So, have you and him been getting up to..." Dick raises his eyebrows.

Clark coughs, dipping in altitude for a fraction of a second. "No, no, nothing like—that was—that was a fluke," he says, his ears going hot. "He's just been staying with me while he figures things out." (And sleeping in Clark's bed, and making Clark coffee, and...)

"Figures things out," Dick echoes, his eyebrows going up another notch.

"About his condition," Clark says, the heat in his ears spreading across the whole rest of his face. "I swear, that was just—"

"I'm messing with you, Blue," Dick says with a snort. "I mean, mostly." 

Their feet touch the pavement, and Clark does his level best to ignore how Dick's grinning up at him. Which doesn't really end up amounting to much, and just leaves him blushing harder. "It's not like..." He flounders. "I'm not exactly expecting much to come of that except a lecture, is what I'm trying to say."  _ Possibly one of the worst ideas you've ever had _ , he hears Bruce say, and can't quite account for the faint pang in his chest. He grimaces, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Trust me, this isn't likely to come to much. It's not like I'm exactly his type." Being that he is neither half of  _ femme fatale _ , which seems to be the sort Bruce goes for ninety percent of the time.

Dick puts his hands on his hips, cocking his head to one side. "Not that it's really my place to be giving Superman dating advice," he says dryly, "but maybe don't write yourself off that fast, Blue. You never know."

"That's not even touching on the fact that I didn't even think to ask before I..." Clark makes a vague gesture, unwilling to actually mime the act of the kiss. "I'm going to get an earful later, I can tell you that right now." In Bruce's defense, of course, Clark's pretty sure he absolutely deserves one, at least for that part.

"That was dumb," Dick agrees with a small smile. "But you'll work things out. You always do."

* * *

 

Bruce keeps quiet, watching Volya watching him. The elder vampire—and having a week to stew on that word doesn't make it any less bitter in his mouth, nor any less difficult to swallow—regards Bruce with a placid sort of fascination, his tired smile unwavering.

After a moment, Volya speaks. "As you have not fallen prey to the frenzy," he says, "should you decide to come with me to my home, I will not insist that you stay with me among our people. But know that my door is always open to you, young man."

_ Young man _ again. Bruce schools his face into neutrality as he takes a step forward. He doesn't know if the interrogation's rules still apply anymore, but he may as well. "Just how old are you, anyway?"

Volya dips his head, his smile widening just a fraction. "As a human, I was born... oh, I do not remember the exact date anymore, but some six hundred years ago, I believe," he replies. (Something in Bruce's chest tightens at that, at the notion that he could grow so old as to forget when he was human, or when he was born. Just how far removed from humanity has this being become?) "I was sired by the son of the Dragon himself, many years ago. He was... he was as repulsive and unpleasant a sire as you can imagine," Volya continues, the faintest hint of a grimace pinching at his features, "but I suppose, perhaps, that I owe him something of a debt, as cruel as he was. Without the double-edged blessing of longevity he gave me, I would not ever have been able to touch as many lives as I have."

_ The son of the Dragon _ doesn't leave much room for interpretation, but Bruce likes to be sure: "You were sired by Dracula," he says flatly.

"Just so," Volya says somberly. "Under his thrall, I... was accomplice to many things I could never live long enough to forget," he continues, "and so I do what I can to atone."

Bruce is sure he doesn't want to know just what kinds of things Volya means, but on the one hand, he can't help his own natural curiosity. On the other, however, there are some wounds, some guilts, that are still tender to the touch no matter how many years have passed; it isn't his place. "So you decided to open an orphanage," he says instead.

"That is one way to put it, yes," Volya says, his smile returning. "Most do not stay with me in my house, of course, but some—some find comfort in having a home to return to in the daylight." He tucks a long strand of hair behind his ear. "Others—others find a kind of... rehabilitation, I believe is the word. Sometimes, mistakes happen, of course, and I try to provide a safe place for those who have accidentally sired new children of their own."

Bruce frowns. "How do you  _ accidentally _ sire someone?" He's still not completely sure of how solid his own memories of the event might even be, given how his nightmares keep shifting, but he can't imagine a way it's possible to accidentally force your blood down someone else's throat.

"There are ways," Volya says, and Bruce grits his teeth because being opaque and enigmatic is his wheelhouse, and he doesn't much appreciate being on the other end of the equation. "Our people are not... homogeneous, you must understand. I have come to learn that we are like snowflakes in this way: very rarely are two of us alike."

"How does that work, exactly?" Bruce asks.

Volya opens his mouth to reply, but quickly closes it, glancing up into the sky. "Ah, your good friend is back. Hello," he says, even going so far as to give an almost jaunty wave. 

Clark comes back down to the roof, placing himself in such a way as to keep both Bruce and Volya in his periphery. Bruce hears and feels his heartbeat pick up almost the second he's in any kind of proximity to Volya, and despite how affable the vampire might be, Bruce can't blame him for being cautious. (Or, maybe, it's proximity to Bruce that's gotten him nervous. The space between them is a chasm after the closeness of that kiss, but—but Bruce is projecting here. He needs to get back to the task at hand.)

"Nightwing?" Bruce asks.

"Going out to patrol elsewhere," Clark replies. "Somewhere with fewer undead in it, hopefully. ...No offense," he adds, tension in his eyes when he glances Volya's way. (Bruce resists the urge to roll his eyes. As plainly uncomfortable as this whole thing makes him, and Clark still finds it in himself to be polite to a pair of walking corpses.)

Volya lifts his hands. "None taken, young man. You are, I think, right to be wary. There are many who might seek to do you and yours harm—and I admire your dedication to protecting others."

Clark can't exactly shift his weight from foot to foot when he does that thing where he hovers three inches off the ground to look taller, but he still looks deeply awkward all the same. "Thanks, I think." He glances at Bruce expectantly. "So."

Bruce glances away from Clark. "I'll go," he tells Volya. As the vampire beams, Bruce lifts a hand before Clark can say anything further. "You, however, are going  _ home. _ "

"What?" Clark says, the volume of his voice making Bruce tense on instinct. "Like hell I will. You're not going anywhere alone."

"We've had this discussion already," Bruce says tersely. "You're staying out of this."

"If this whole... operation isn't what it seems to be—"

"I will  _ handle  _ it," Bruce snaps. "You want to help? Help by keeping yourself out of trouble."

Volya, perhaps wisely, takes a step back, keeping quiet as he watches them. Clark drifts closer—just barely out of arm's reach, not quite getting completely into Bruce's space. Bruce can feel Clark's heart hammering through his own skin, and that's starting to turn into a damned inconvenience already, knowing exactly the effect he's having on Clark and feeling the physiological symptoms of those reactions. He can't ignore it, can't temper it with his own biofeedback training because it's Clark's goddamn fault. Silence stretches between them for a few seconds that may as well be several years for how slow they drag on.

Eventually, Clark's heart calms, and when he speaks, he's put on that even voice he uses to soothe panicked children. That he thinks it will work on a dead man who is perfectly level-headed already, thank you very goddamn much, is almost laughable. "Yeah, we've had this discussion already," Clark agrees, holding himself another few inches higher. Bruce's jaw tightens. "I'm not letting you do this alone."

If Bruce continues to turn him down, if he simply leaves Clark on this rooftop and follows Volya into the dark, there's not a chance that Clark won't just follow him anyway, most likely dragging worse trouble behind himself like an electromagnet. If he relents, then at least he can try and mitigate any collateral damage Clark might cause by being a stubborn idiot. If it turns out that Volya does what he says he does, that there is no apparent danger to either of them awaiting in that so-called house, then Clark can simply stay back and observe—and, knowing him, be thoroughly spooked by whatever goes on in a vampire's safehouse. If not, then (as much as Bruce would rather not admit it) he does have one decent point: Going into a confrontation without any kind of backup isn't likely to work out in his favor. 

He's going to regret this. "Fine."

"But if y—" Clark stops himself, mouth hanging open for a fraction of a second before he realizes what he's just heard. "Wait, really?"

"Yes," Bruce says, ignoring the way Clark is gawking now. "Don't make me reconsider, either."

"Right." Clark touches down properly now—at least, mostly—the shift of his boots softened by however many millimeters he's still holding himself off the roof's surface. Not quite silent, but close. Clark glances from Bruce to Volya, that nervous tension coming back into his eyes. "Lead the way, then, I guess."

* * *

 

Volya doesn't waste much time with small talk as they move through the alleys, which Bruce personally appreciates a great deal. The less sound their group makes, the better. Clark, too, seems to understand the value of silence right this moment, which is somewhat more double-edged; it gives Bruce the opportunity to mull over the events of the past several hours, with few external stimuli except for the sound of Clark's breathing and the increasingly tense rhythm of his rabbiting heart on which to train his focus.

The path to the safehouse is as meandering and difficult to track as Bruce would have expected, of course. Should this orphanage turn out to be a trap, Volya wouldn't want them to be able to find their way back if they made a break for it. On the other hand, if it's exactly as he says, Bruce imagines he'd prefer its location to be as secret as possible, to protect whatever charges he has in his care and to ensure their isolation. 

They've been walking for what Bruce estimates to be about an hour and a half when Clark breaks the silence with a faint, strained sound of discomfort. Volya stops, turning with a look of almost paternal concern. "Are you well, young man?"

Clark closes his eyes and nods, but his jaw and posture are tense, pained. Bruce stops himself just short of closing the distance between them to check up on him more closely. There aren't many things that can get that sort of a reaction out of Superman, after all, and fewer of them are things Bruce has the tools to help with—none of them are things he can help with before he knows the source of his distress, anyway.

"Are we getting close?" Clark asks, cracking his eyes open.

"We are," Volya says gently. He has no such qualms about reaching out, evidently, stretching out a hand and resting it on Clark's shoulder. "I do apologize, my friend—I have had to take some measures to keep my children safe, you understand. A friend provided me with a few minor safeguard enchantments to ward off unwelcome visitors—" and here he casts a wry smile—"should some of the natural limitations of our people not suffice." He pats Clark's shoulder once before drawing back. "A moment, and I will undo the locks for you." 

Clark glances Bruce's way, and Bruce relents, stepping forward to let Clark lean on him. "Natural limitations?" he whispers when Volya starts walking away.

"If I had to guess," Bruce says, watching the vampire's retreating back, "something to do with not entering dwellings uninvited."

Clark's sound of understanding is somewhat undercut by the grunt of pain he interrupts it with. "Right, right, how could I forget," he mutters. And then, thoughtful: "Do you have that?"

Bruce knows Clark can't see it—he's too polite to look behind the cowl most days—but he raises an eyebrow anyway. "Have what?"

Clark's pained look then is more of the  _ I see through your bullshit, Wayne, don't try that with me _ variety than whatever discomfort the nearby enchantment has caused him. That's something, at least. "The... dwelling thing. You know. I bet that'd make the whole breaking and entering to beat up criminals thing kind of hard, wouldn't it?" 

"Kind of," Bruce echoes dryly. (This is an easier conversation than any of the dozens of others they could be having right now. He'll take it.) "I don't know," he adds. "Your apartment's the only 'dwelling' I've gone into since I... turned, and you gave me permission before we were even in the same county." This excursion isn't going to work as an experiment, either— _ my door is always open to you _ is difficult to misconstrue, after all.

In the event that he is under that particular limitation, however, Bruce can't help but wonder: Could he even go back to the manor without asking first? Does whatever magic controls his strengths and weaknesses require welcome from a legal owner, or just any tenant living in its walls? If his will hasn't gone through yet, would that allow him to enter uncontested?

He doesn't have long to consider the ramifications, or to dodge any other possible conversations Clark might want to have, because Volya starts to come back then, hands in the pockets of his coat. "My apologies for the delay, dear friends," he says. He nods to Clark, whose expression has cleared back to a vague wariness. "You, young man, should have no issue entering my home now—the ward recognizes you as a friend. Come, come. I do not have much food that would be suitable for those of warm blood," he continues, apologetic, "but what little I have is yours." 

Volya turns again, beckoning them both to follow. The three pass through another short series of winding alleyways, which grow narrower and more decrepit as they continue, the windows looking down on them all dark and boarded. A cat darts across the path, barely casting a glance backwards at them before slipping through a crack in one of the walls. Here, too, Bruce can hear the quiet chattering of raccoons, a dog barking in the distance, and—as ever—Clark's rabbiting heart. What he doesn't hear, however, is anything resembling human speech.

"How many 'children' do you have?" Bruce asks quietly.

"There are usually about... mm, I would say twelve or so in my home at any given night," Volya says. Abruptly, he stops walking, coming to stand in front of a plain wooden door, scuffed and battered from the elements.

The windows of this building are shuttered, not boarded, but the effect is ultimately the same: a dark front, marked only by a faded sign hanging over the door. Above the shuttered windows are the bare frames of awnings, bent and rusted, and below there are the rotted remains of what might have once been flower boxes. Bruce half-expects Volya to utter some sort of incantation or password, but instead he simply pulls a skeleton key from his coat and slips it into the lock.

"Welcome, my friends," Volya says, turning the metal knob and pushing the door open.

Over Volya's shoulder, Bruce can see—a perfectly ordinary-looking house, by all rights. He passes the threshold on Volya's heels, Clark following close after, casting his gaze around the front room for any sign of anything unusual. About a half dozen people sit around on a few slightly tattered sofas and chairs, barely paying Volya or his guests any heed. There's a goddamn television in one corner, for heaven's sake.

"This is the sitting room," Volya explains, gesturing with a broad sweep of his arm. "We gather here for socialization, or for family meetings. There is an, ah—some sort of video game box, I believe, that one of our dear newcomers brought to us some time ago. We sup upstairs, and there is also a small library—which is where we are going, the three of us, so that I may answer more of your questions. Unless you would like to meet your brothers and sisters?" he asks.

Said brothers and sisters have started paying attention now, either because they heard their patron talking or—Bruce's own theory—they noticed that Batman and Superman are inside their house. They don't look particularly upset, or feral, or even vaguely peckish. If anything, they just look mildly curious. One, a boy who looks barely older than Damian (and Bruce bristles at that thought, thinks of how it kill him to see his children suffer the way he has—) goes wide-eyed, his mouth falling open as he watches them pass.

"I don't want to cause a ruckus," Clark says, looking and sounding much less nervous than his heartbeat indicates he actually is.

"It is no trouble, young man, I promise you," Volya replies cheerfully. "But if you are shy, I shall not press you."

_ Clark _ and  _ shy _ are not words that Bruce has associated together for a long time, but Clark just nods and they continue passing through the house. At the back of the sitting room there is an opening out into a short hall, which forces them to turn immediately right. To the left are four doors—bedrooms, as Volya explains—and a steep staircase at the very end. 

"My home can house about twenty-five at the maximum," Volya explains, "though, as I said, it is usually closer to a dozen. Sometimes there will be a slight... influx, I believe is the word, in the autumn months." He makes a small noise of not so much disgust as just disappointment. "Mischief-makers, who think they are funny when they turn others during the Halloween season, you see."

"How many of you are there?" Clark asks, his tone simultaneously awed and somewhat alarmed. 

Volya glances over his shoulder, his expression mild but his eyebrows slightly raised. "Worldwide, it is hard to say," he says. "But rest assured, my friend, we measure perhaps a fraction of a fraction of a percent in comparison to the warm of blood. You need not fear our numbers."

"I'm not afraid," Clark says, mildly affronted, "just... curious, that's all. What about in Gotham, though? Since you seem to have a finger on the pulse of the community and oh, I am  _ so _ sorry," he stammers, ears going pink. "I didn't mean to—"

Volya laughs. "No offense taken, I assure you," he says. "As far as Gotham herself is concerned—mm, I would guess perhaps only a hundred or so at any given time. Many of us are wanderers by nature, and others find that it brings up traumatic memories to remain here if a local vampire had turned them. Myself, I traveled across the world for nearly a century when I found myself free of my sire's thrall—it had been in my nature to roam, as a mortal man, but I found that this city called to me, in her own way." At the top of the stairs they come to another door; the hinges creak when Volya pushes it open. "I came here at the turn of the eighteenth century," he continues, "with many other pilgrims of the Old World. She was just a trading settlement then—much less easy to blend in with her human peoples, I assure you—but... even then, she was home, and even then, I was able to do some good." 

The second floor opens onto another long hallway, flanked by more doors—also bedrooms, Bruce assumes—and ending in a wide, open room lit by a handful of floor lamps. Bookshelves, full enough to make the shelves themselves curve at the middle, line the walls, surrounding a loose circle of cushioned chairs and a pair of sofas. A pair of miniature refrigerators flank one of the sofas, on top of which are cups of what look like silly straws. Volya quickly approaches one of the fridges and opens it. He draws out a small plastic bag, full of suspiciously dark liquid, smiling as he tosses it towards Bruce.

Clark looks at the container in Bruce's hand warily. "Is that what I think it is?" he asks.

"Merely rescued from incineration after its expiration, I assure you," Volya says with a small nod, procuring another bag for himself before nudging the fridge door closed with his boot. "Freely given, and while it is not as... satisfying as what may be taken from a living source, it will sate your good friend's hunger." He lifts his own bag up slightly, as if to toast, and plucks a straw out of one of the cups. "Drink freely, my child."

Bruce turns the blood over in his hand, hesitant. He watches Volya pull the end open—and the smell of it, which he'd been able to ignore until now, floods his senses, sweet and dark and goddamn irresistible—slipping a straw into the opening he's made and lifting it to his lips before sucking at it as if it were a juice box. Watching him is—is—is goddamn torture, if he's honest with himself, and the hunger, which had been a niggling urge in the back of his mind when he'd been with Nightwing, is curling and twisting in his stomach now, refusing to be denied.

When the bag is half empty, Volya lowers it from his lips, turning his head to one side. "If you would prefer not to drink, my child, I understand," he says, gently.

"I haven't..." Bruce glances down at the blood, watches the liquid shift as he turns it again. "I don't want to drink human blood," he says eventually, but he's finding that to be a lie now, that he wants, desperately, more than anything, to give in, to consume.

Volya glances towards Clark for just a moment—enough time that Bruce can curse his own phrasing—before taking a step forward, reaching out to take the bag from Bruce's hands. "If you wish to abstain," he says softly, "I will take no offense. I am proud of you, my child. Know that there will not be any ill effects if you choose to partake, but I respect your abstinence all the same."

Bruce glances back down at the bag, his stomach snarling again. The open one in Volya's hand is close enough now that he can practically taste it—would it be much different, he wonders, from the synthetic mix Zatanna had given him? Would it satisfy him for longer, relieve that gnawing hunger for days instead of hours, or—

"Is it addictive?" Bruce asks.

Volya shakes his head. "It is sustenance, not a drug," he says, resting his hand on Bruce's knuckles. "Should you drink, it will ease the pangs of your hunger for a time. Should you not, you will be hungry a little longer. But it does not take away your ability to choose."

Bruce finds his fingers tightening around the bag, his gauntlet creaking faintly. Volya relents, taking a half-step back, and Bruce can hear and feel Clark's heart picking back up again, shame prickling at his skin as he pulls the bag open. "Fine," he says, and drinks.

"Bruce—" Clark says, but the deed is done. 

_ God.  _ If the synthetic blood Zatanna had made was a relief, this is an utter godsend, filling him from practically the moment it touches his tongue.  It's sweet and cool as it goes down his throat, and he drinks deep like a man dying of thirst, draining the bag in a matter of seconds. A quiet sigh passes his lips when he finishes, the relief almost enough to smother the swell of guilt settling in the base of his stomach.

For a moment, he fears that that taste will ignite the frenzy Volya had spoken of before, that he'll tear into the rest until he's consumed everything in reach (that he'll turn and devour Clark, taste the heaven of his nightmare as he bleeds all the light out from those bright blue eyes—) but now that he's drunk his fill, he feels... sated. Relaxed, almost, the way a glass of wine might affect a living man. Not the creeping exhaustion he's come to associate with dawn, but the languid draw of early twilight.

"I was afraid of this," Clark mutters, drawing himself up another inch off the ground as he approaches Volya. "He was doing just  _ fine  _ until you—"

"My friend, my friend," Volya says gently, holding his hands up, "I assure you, this is merely a natural process. As I said, this is freely given; no one has come to harm for this, and should he choose to abstain in the future, this will not hinder him."

Clark's eyes flare. "'Natural process' my—"

Bruce takes a few steps and reaches out to pull at Clark's cape. "Calm down," he says. "I'm fine."

Clark turns, lowers himself to examine Bruce. His eyes flash a pale blue for a fraction of a second as he looks through the cowl, frantic. "You're sure?" he says. "I thought—you were so worried about this, I thought..."

Bruce closes his eyes and shakes his head. "I feel... better," he says, swallowing his guilt at that admission the same as he'd swallowed the blood. He licks his lips, but they're clean. When he opens his eyes again, he looks to Volya, unable to meet Clark's troubled gaze.

"As I said," Volya says, lowering his hands with a kind smile. "If you wish, when you leave, I will give you more to bring home."

"You most certainly will not," says Clark, wrinkling his nose. "Having my fridge full of that synthetic stuff is bad enough, thank you very much."

Volya chuckles, drawing another bag from one of the refrigerators before settling in a chair. "Whatever you wish," he says. "Now. I am sure you have many more questions for me, my children." He opens his arms. "I am at your service."

Bruce stands behind one of the chairs rather than sitting, and Clark seems inclined to follow suit. "You said some newborns go through frenzies," Bruce says. "Why? Why haven't I felt anything like that?"

"The change, as I said, is disorienting for many," Volya answers with a small grimace. "The thirst becomes overpowering, and they may give in to base instinct. It is especially so upon awakening, before time can bring clarity. As for yourself... there are any number of reasons you may not have experienced such a thing. Perhaps your good friend's presence at your rebirth—" here he gives an appreciative nod to Clark—"was grounding enough that it gave you awareness. I could not say."

Clark snorts. "It's not like you were ever the kind of person to give in to 'base instinct,' B," he points out, gently nudging Bruce in the side with his elbow. He looks at Volya, curiosity and clarity sparking in his eyes. "Would that actually give someone a leg up?"

Volya shrugs. "It could, it could," he says. "Everyone is different, you must understand, both in their rebirth and in the manifestation of their new self. I have noticed very few true constants in my lifetime. The drinking of blood, the time it takes for the change to take place, an aversion to daylight—though, ha! Even that, I have seen in recent years, has not stayed the same." He chuckles, taking another long drink. "My understanding, you see, is that our people change and adapt with the prevalent beliefs of the cultures that surround them. One who lives as a mortal believing that, for example, all vampires are averse to the crucifix and certain herbs, will become such upon rebirth. I grew up with the belief that pure silver or iron might harm the undead—and now, I will burn should I touch it.

"It would stand to reason, then, that if you, young man, truly believed in your mortal life that your mortal resistances would carry over into the next life, then they will," Volya continues, taking another sip. "If you believe that all newborns will become mindless beasts for, say, a week—or, if you can be  _ convinced _ , after the fact, then upon rebirth you will experience the frenzy. Part of what I do here is to tell the youngest children that they will experience a week's hunger, after which time it will ease. When they believe that, I can keep them here, safe and away from the mortal world, until they grow calm. I had meant to do so with you," he adds, lifting his bag to Bruce, "but that proved, thankfully, unnecessary. And what a blessing, too! I would rather not consider what someone with your skills could do in the thrall of true bloodlust."

Bruce doesn't let himself consider the possibility. "You won't keep me here, then," he says.

"No, I do not think I need to at all," Volya replies with a smile. "You seem to have things quite well in hand. When you are satisfied, you are more than free to go home."

With the nagging impression that it will take a long time before he's truly satisfied, Bruce moves around the chair and sinks into it. Clark stands to his right, his hand lingering just over Bruce's shoulder for a moment before resting against the back of the chair. "What happens if I don't drink?" he asks.

"You will be hungry, child," Volya says mildly. "Beyond that, if you have not felt any sort of ravenousness already, then I doubt you will suffer any worse effect than that. In my experience, the first few days of rebirth are the most difficult, and the worst of the symptoms ease after a time."

Bruce leans forward. "Is it safe to—"  _ see my family again _ —"be near 'mortals', as you put it?"

"You are near one now, are you not?" Volya asks, briefly glancing up to smile at Clark. "Your good friend seems to still be walking, unharmed, no? Have you found yourself struggling with temptation?"

That's a hell of a way to put it, Bruce thinks, but—"Sporadically," he says. "If I'm not doing something else, the hunger is... problematic. As long as I have something to focus on, I can control it."

"There you are, then." Volya finishes his first bag and opens the second. "You are a remarkable being, my child—as are we all—and stronger than you know. I find, too, that the fear of harming the warm of blood is a safeguard against doing so. That you are so concerned with the wellbeing of mortal humans—and others," he adds, eyes twinkling, "is reassurance enough to me that you could walk among mortals without the need for worry."

"You could just be saying that to convince me to make it true," Bruce points out dryly. "Since 'newborns' are so susceptible to the power of suggestion, according to you."

"Would that be such a bad thing?" Volya points out. "To convince a little one that they are not a danger to others, thus ensuring that they will not be, has been something of my goal all along, you know. Believe me or do not," he says, "but I have faith in you, child."

Clark's hand comes to rest on Bruce's shoulder now, and the contact makes Bruce tense for a fraction of a second before he relaxes. "You have been doing really well," Clark points out. "I'd bet that if you wanted to go back to talk to the kids—"

Bruce lifts a hand to silence him. Clark clears his throat as he lifts his hand from Bruce's shoulder, but obediently doesn't say another word. "If I do slip up," Bruce says, voice low, "will it—is it fatal?"

Volya shakes his head. "So long as you do not drink a mortal dry, it should not kill them," he says. "And, likewise, it will not turn them."

"You said it was possible to turn someone accidentally," Bruce points out.

Volya taps his temple with a knowing smile. "And I said that the prevalent beliefs surrounding our people shape how we are born. Some are able to turn others with just a bite, but—well, in my dealings with your sire," he says with a grimace, "they have always turned others by forcing them to drink of their own blood. So long as you know that that is how one is turned, then you will not turn others except by that method."

Bruce rubs at his mouth. "You can change your own limitations after you've turned?" he says. "As long as you just... believe hard enough?"

"Sounds kind of hokey to me," Clark mutters.

"It is somewhat difficult to fully convince oneself that, say, one can only be sustained by love," Volya replies, "though, if you are curious, I have indeed seen such—but given time, yes, provided that it is your true and earnest belief. One's beliefs prior to rebirth are, however, even more difficult to change. Thus, I sincerely doubt that you would have the capability to turn any mortal by accident."

Bruce leans back, thinking for a moment. "I haven't been able to remember what happened on the night I died," he says. "That gap, the amnesia—is that another constant?"

Volya winces sympathetically. "It is fairly typical, yes," he says. "And, unfortunately, in my personal experience, the memories of mortal life have faded further as the centuries go on. To some, that is a blessing, but to others..." He sighs. "But that is neither here nor there. If it is any reassurance to you, I will tell you this: I remember my own rebirth now more vividly than I remember the faces of my wife and children. That particular memory of yours will not be gone forever."

As much as he shuns the thought, Bruce forces himself to consider what it would be to live so long as to forget those he'd loved most in life. Could he forget his children, by blood or by bond? Forget Alfred, or his parents? He looks up, glancing at Clark from the corner of his eye. An extended lifespan, the near invulnerability, could be instrumental in continuing his mission, but only for so long as he can remember the mission in the first place. Or, perhaps, he might become so caught up in his crusade over the centuries that it becomes one of his only waking thoughts: the hunger, and the mission.

Fight for justice for as long as the Earth turns around the sun, outlive the villains he fights, and the ones that rise up in their place... and forget those he fights for. He isn't sure that's a worthwhile trade.

Bruce bows his head. "Thank you," he says.

"Of course, my child," Volya says. Bruce hears footsteps drawing near, and then he's kneeling at Bruce's side, a hand on Bruce's knee. "Do not think that this is your damnation, child," he says. "This life, as all lives, is what you make of it. Embrace the gifts your rebirth has given you, accept its limitations, and, as a wise man once said, make yours a good self."

Bruce closes his eyes. He can only take so much earnest honesty in the span of one night, and spending it in the company of Dick, Clark, and now this strange, ancient man has left him tired. "I think," he says, "we should get going."

Volya stands, stepping to the side so that Bruce can do the same. "You are always welcome to my home, my child," he says warmly. "If there is anything else I can give to you, say so."

Bruce pushes himself to his feet, pulling his gauntlets tight over his hands. "There is one thing," he says. "How much do you know about the people who sired me?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW THIS ONE GOT AWAY FROM MEEEEE. Happy November, my gift to you is an 8K+-word update! \o/   
> I really hope y'all like Volya; he's by far the character I was most excited to make for this monster of a fic. <3 (Which, can you believe my original outline for this thing was gonna be like, 6 chapters and 30k words at the most? L o l.) 
> 
> As ever, thanks to KathrynShadow for being a wonderful beta, and to all of you lovelies leaving your kudos and comments to fill my soul with joy.
> 
> Questions, comments, concerns, a basket of puppies you can't seem to get rid of? Hit me up @ lordvitya over on Tumblr because I will _gladly_ take those puppies off your hands.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "A thrall," Bruce echoes, leaning forward. "Elaborate."
> 
> "Ah, yes," Volya says, clearing his throat. "The thrall allows some of our people to take a certain measure of influence over mortal minds—and immortal ones," he adds with a slight wince. "It is, perhaps, not truly mind control, not always, but it leaves one quite vulnerable to even the slightest suggestions."
> 
> "...Do _you_ have the thrall?"
> 
> Volya, to Bruce's surprise, doesn't hesitate. "I do, my child."

Volya slips into the chair next to Bruce's, drawing his hair back behind his ears and letting it fall over one shoulder. He says nothing, does nothing, for a few seconds, before looking up and giving Bruce a wan smile. "Understand, child, that I am... I am not quite like you," he says. "I do not seek out those I oppose. I have seen and dealt enough violence for several lifetimes—I do not need to create more. So, unfortunately, much of what I am about to tell you is hearsay, from the mouths of their other children.

"I know that they are deeply, deeply cruel. The eldest, the father, was reborn some two centuries after myself, in the midst of a great plague," Volya says, his voice low. "What I know of him in those days is very limited, but the stories I have heard are of a man who very much gave in to his hunger. Killing and consuming travelers who crossed his path—often women, usually young—so terribly, so brutally, that it was believed to be wild animals. Sometime many centuries ago, though I do not know when, he took a bride, one he convinced to help him continue his killings." Volya shuts his eyes, his jaw tense. "He sired so many little children in those decades. For a time, I believe he thought to build a conquering force, to subdue the mortals he may have seen as... inferior.

"Why he did not continue on that course, I could not say. Perhaps it was too difficult to bring together an army, to balance the blood-frenzy against the need for structure. Perhaps he decided that to become a conqueror would grow dull after the centuries have worn on. In the end, perhaps it does not matter," Volya says. "In the end, he did not become a conqueror, and for a time, he faded into obscurity. The centuries went on, and he continued to build his... family." His lips twist on that word, as if it's literally turned bitter in his mouth. "First his bride, and then the twins, some time after. It was then that they came to these shores, and began to build their legacy here."

"Their legacy of taking vulnerable people off the streets and killing them, you mean," Clark says, tense.

Volya glances up, looking weary. "Just so," he says. "I suspect that they have kept a thrall over those they might deal with, lawmaker and lawbreaker alike. I cannot imagine they could keep themselves to the shadows any other way—understand, the crimes they commit are not for profit, or for power. By all accounts, they kidnap and they kill to feed, and nothing more."

"A thrall," Bruce echoes, leaning forward. "Elaborate."

"Ah, yes," Volya says, clearing his throat. "The thrall allows some of our people to take a certain measure of influence over mortal minds—and immortal ones," he adds with a slight wince. "It is, perhaps, not truly mind control, not always, but it leaves one quite vulnerable to even the slightest suggestions."

Clark glances towards Bruce, his quickening heart belying the stoicism of his face. The questions on his mind aren't exactly difficult to glean.

"I don't know if I have that," Bruce mutters, before turning back to Volya. "Do _you_ have the thrall?"

Volya, to Bruce's surprise, doesn't hesitate. "I do, my child."

Clark is instantly wound tight, gripping the chair behind Bruce tight enough to make the faux leather creak. "B..."

"I do not know how much my word may be worth to you," Volya says, "perhaps less, perhaps more now that I have given you my truth, but know this—since the time that I... came to my senses, so to speak, I have not once employed the thrall to achieve any end, good or ill. Believe me or do not, that is your choice, of course, but I would that you may at least know that."

Short of asking him to demonstrate what the thrall looks like in action, there aren't many ways to test one way or another whether Volya is telling the truth. Bruce—Bruce makes a note to test his own abilities in a controlled environment ( _not_ on his children, no matter what Dick tries to insist), and swallows the bitter pill required to accept that he won't know if that particular facet of Volya's story is truth or not. He can determine how much free will he has left later. For now, they have other matters to discuss before the sun comes up. "Do you know of any vulnerabilities they might have? Regional beliefs that might have influenced how they turned out when they were... reborn, as you put it?"

Volya considers for a moment, his face somber even as he sticks his straw into his second blood bag. "If you seek to fight them," he says, and when he looks back up at Bruce, his eyes are twinkling, "and I know that you do, know that you will be doing so quite blindly. They have kept quite the lock on those sorts of secrets for, I think, obvious reasons. I do not know of any stories of others confronting them, and so I am unsure of what may be effective." He takes a long drink. "In the old days, you must understand, there were few native stories of our people in that part of the Old World. It is difficult to say what the father may or may not have heard when he was a mortal man. More difficult still, I think, to say what the wife and children may have learned in life."

"So you're saying you don't know," Clark says, his lips a thin line. "You could just say that you don't know."

Volya chuckles, raising a hand in surrender. "Indeed. Truly, I am not sure of what weaknesses any of them have inherited," he admits. "But take solace in this, my children, that there is always something. Self-inflicted, perhaps, if one knows the ways in which our people work as I do—or incidental, in the case of my sire." He smiles up at Bruce and Clark both. "I, myself, cannot handle something so simple as a silver tea set, as I said before. Embarrassing, no?"

"Why tell us that?" Bruce says, leaning in.

"To build trust," Volya says, his smile warming, "and to ensure a failsafe, should something... unspeakable happen to me. I hope I do not sound too arrogant, but you must understand, my children, that I have become very powerful in my old age. A deep knowledge of our people has allowed me much more opportunity than, I think, many others might get without this knowledge." He takes another drink. "And so, should I ever lose my way, my children will know at least one way to ensure that I cannot bring undue harm upon the warm of blood. I think, perhaps, that you understand this need, yes?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce can see Clark shifting ever so subtly from foot to foot, trying to fidget without looking like that's what he's actually doing. "Yeah," Clark says. "I get it."

Bruce stands, moving around the back of the chair and pacing a three-foot circuit across the floor. "You don't know anything else about the family itself? Not even from other victims?"

"Very few survivors of theirs come to me with any knowledge of where they have been, or what has transpired," Volya says. "The children who come to me from that place are frightened, traumatized—the most they will remember is who drank from them, and whose blood they themselves drank. Beyond that, the inner workings of the family are somewhat shrouded, I am afraid. Ah! But I forget myself," Volya says, brightening suddenly. "Perhaps you would speak with Hanna, one of the dear girls who came to me after your own rebirth. She has only just come out of her room, of course—I have not had much chance to speak with her, but perhaps she might have heard whispers I have not had the chance to ask about, mm?"

Bruce glances from Volya to Clark, and then back again. "She's not in a frenzy?"

"No, no," Volya says, shaking his head emphatically. "Tonight is her second night communing with the rest of the household. She is, I grant you, a little shy, but she has had a difficult time of things. Be gentle, be patient, and she might be able to help you, one way or another."

* * *

 

Being locked in a room with a vampire who may or may not have just come to her senses is not exactly how Clark wants to spend a Saturday night, and yet here he is. If it helps Bruce—if it helps Bruce, Clark is willing to do nearly anything, and that realization is more than a little terrifying to contemplate. So, instead, he takes up a seat in the corner of the room farthest from the discussion and does his best not to smell too delicious, since _that's_ apparently an issue.

Hanna, sitting cross-legged on her slightly the worse for wear twin bed, is as timid as Volya said, keeping her eyes affixed to her tattered sneakers, fidgeting occasionally with the mass of frizzy curls just barely touching her shoulders. She looks, by Clark's estimation—which, given that she was apparently turned only a week ago and not over six hundred years, might actually mean something—to be barely older than eighteen. When she speaks, her voice is soft, and terribly tired. "I remember you."

"I'm doing what I can to remember you, too," Bruce tells her, as gently as if he were talking to a child. "But I need your help. Can you talk about what happened that night?"

Hanna is still for a moment, unblinking, unbreathing. (More than a week of this sort of thing, and Clark finds he's still getting used to seeing people, human-looking people, just stop breathing for upwards of several minutes without any discomfort.) When she doesn't seem like she's about to respond, Bruce adds: "If you can't, that's fine. I promise."

"I'll... try," Hanna says, swallowing. "What do you want me to say?"

Bruce pulls up a chair for himself, drawing up his cape to keep it from catching when he inches the chair forward. "Whatever you can remember," he says. "And whatever you're comfortable talking about."

Hanna shuts her eyes and nods. "Okay."

"Can you describe the building for me?"

Hanna starts to nod, then quickly shakes her head. "No, it was—it—they—the man and the woman, they blindfolded us. I didn't see anything until we were in—the 'dining room', she called it. The woman. I'm sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Bruce assures her, reaching out to touch her arm. "But they did take off the blindfolds then, right?"

Hanna nods. "Yeah. They—the woman, and her brother, they took them off once we got in there, and they put us in this... this kennel thing. Talked about wanting to—to—" She shakes a little, and Bruce's hand comes up to her shoulder. "I'm sorry, I just—"

"Take your time," Bruce says, moving his chair closer to her. "You don't have to tell me anything you don't want to."

Hanna sniffs, letting Bruce pull her in, her shoulders shuddering as she fists her hands into his cape. And Clark can't just sit back and watch a traumatized young woman reliving the night of her death, no matter his own fears. He steps up, kneeling at Bruce's side to rest a hand between Hanna's shoulders. For a while, they sit there in the quiet of her room, her soft crying the only sound between them.

"They were going to—to spread us out," Hanna eventually manages, drawing back and wiping her eyes. "Like a f—like a menu planner," she adds, a bitter little laugh cracking through the tears.

Clark's hand comes to rest on Hanna's shoulder now, tracing small, rhythmic circles with his thumb. She doesn't seem to calm down much, if at all, but she doesn't shy away either, and she doesn't start crying again. Little victories, Clark thinks.

"Can you tell me what the room looked like?" Bruce asks.

"Like a basement," Hanna says, frowning a little as she remembers.

"Any furniture?"

Hanna nods again. "There was this big steel table," she says, "with... with straps on the corners. It's what they used to—to hold us down, to—you know. And they had some—some big wooden crates, too, about half a dozen of 'em. They slept in those, after they..." She clears her throat, quietly. "You know."

"Can you tell me about them?" Bruce says. "The man and woman who took you?"

"They were both tall," Hanna says. "Kind of olive skin, um, and they— _she_ kept talking about how she wanted to... to eat like a family, or something." She blinks, her eyes welling up again as she bows her head. "But it was just those two," she continues, "even after—after you came. After you, nobody came."

Bruce is quiet for a few breaths, letting Hanna draw herself together again. It always surprises Clark, how good Bruce is at the other side of making people talk. No intimidation, no pressure, just helping someone who's been deeply scared and scarred open up about what's happened to them. In another lifetime, Clark thinks he might have made a good trauma counselor.

"I saw you coming in," Hanna eventually continues. "Just—out of the corner of my eye. I thought I was going crazy," she adds with another bitter, breathless laugh. "We'd been—I'd been in there for... fuck, I don't know how long. A couple days, at least?" She worries her lip, squeezes her eyes shut. "Long enough to get really, really hungry. One of the—one of the others.... There were four of us, when they brought me in, but—but they killed one of the others. Just—just strapped him down and..." Hanna bows her head again, tears spilling down her cheeks. When she speaks again, her voice is barely louder than a whisper. "God. I saw what they did to you, too."

Bruce doesn't stiffen, doesn't tense, doesn't do anything but peel out of his gauntlets, take Hanna's hand loosely in both of his own. Hanna takes in a shuddering few breaths, leaning forward and tilting her head onto his shoulder. "I've been having trouble remembering that night," Bruce says softly.

"God, I wish I didn't," Hanna says with a wet, miserable laugh. "I've been... I've been trying to forget the whole thing," she says, staring down at her hand in Bruce's. "But I can't, I—they just, they just—and... and they just dumped me in the bay before it—before it all went black." She shakes her head, turns it to bury her face in Bruce's shoulder. Bruce just lifts one hand, wraps his arm around her, and lets her cry. "Do you get nightmares, too?"

"Yes," Bruce says. "All the time."

Hanna's laugh is a brittle sound, her body shaking with it before it turns to sobbing. Her other hand comes up to clench at the edge of Bruce's cape, and Bruce simply moves his hand up and down her arm, as silent as a stone. "I just—I never thought you were..." She draws away, just a little, and wipes her nose on her sleeve. "Never thought the Batman got nightmares, I guess. Thought you _were_ the nightmares."

The hint of a smile pulls at the corner of Bruce's mouth when he looks down at her, but he doesn't offer any further commentary. It's too much, Clark supposes, to say what sorts of things keep the Dark Knight up at night; that there is something at all is enough. And Hanna seems to take a sort of strange solace in that knowledge, too, the tension in her frame easing, piece by piece, until she draws back all the way, arms pulled around her ribs.

Clark moves back to give Hanna and Bruce their space, his eyes catching her faded jeans, loose-fitting T-shirt, and he wonders—who was she in life? What were her aspirations, her dreams?

Does she have family somewhere, wondering where their daughter, their sister has gone?

"Can you describe what happened?" Bruce asks quietly. "After you saw me."

Hanna nods, a quick, barely visible jerk of her head. "Yeah, I can... just tell me what you want to know, I guess."

"Why don't you start at the beginning?"

"Okay." Hanna takes in a long, deep breath. "Well, like I said, I—I saw you coming in, out of the corner of my eye. I think they must have heard you, or smelled you, or—or something, I don't know, but the woman had her brother drag you all the way in, into the light and—God," she breathes, "God, I hoped... I thought—"

The tears start to trail down her cheeks again, and this time Clark gets up, sitting next to her on the mattress and drawing her close. She clings to him the same as she had to Bruce, her slight body going almost limp as she sobs into his crest. Clark folds his arms around her, his hand pressed gently between her shoulders, murmuring softly. It's hard to tell behind the mask, but the fraction of a smile Bruce manages now seems—grateful, Clark thinks. Grateful, and maybe a little fond.

"It's okay," Clark says. "Take your time."

"There was a fight," Hanna says, voice brittle and muffled by Clark's uniform. "I didn't—I should have been paying attention, but I didn't want to—to see. I  looked away one second, and the next—the next thing I saw, you were on the table." She takes in a deep, shaky breath, her hands balled into fists at Clark's back. "They were trying to strap you down, I think, but you kept pulling free, so they—they—"

Clark shifts, moving his hand from her back to her hair, his thumb moving in small circles against the back of her head. Hanna's shakes slowly start to subside, but her grip on Clark is as tight as ever. He lets her keep holding on, his other arm wrapped loosely around her chest.

"I think they tried to take the—" Hanna pulls a hand away, motions vaguely around her head, presumably to indicate Bruce's cowl. "They tried to take it off at some point, but it didn't work, so he—so the man just held you down while _she_ just—just bit right into..." She sucks in another breath, shakes as she lets it out. "And I saw you just... go limp. God. They strapped you down then, once you couldn't—couldn't fight back anymore. The man sort of... tore out a chunk of his own arm," she continues, sounding more than a little ill now. "Right there, with his—with his teeth, and let it bleed. God, the _smell_."

A full-body shudder of revulsion, and Hanna buries her face a little more into Clark's chest. "You didn't move," she whispers. "You were just lying there, I thought you were—I thought they'd just killed you, but..." She sniffs, turning her head to press her ear to Clark's sternum. "Then you started coughing it back up," she says, "and they just... kept forcing it down."

Bruce has been silent for so long that Clark finds himself looking up at him now, watching what he can see of Bruce's face. There's a tightness to his mouth and jaw, his shoulders low. Clark wishes he could reach out to him too, draw them both into his arms and take the weight away, but for now, all he can do is sit and listen, be a shoulder to lean against and cry on.

"The woman," Hanna whispers, "kept talking about how she wanted to keep you, make you part of—part of 'the family', she said. But when you stopped moving, they just—the man just picked you up and took you outside. But I guess she was happy about that, or something, because they didn't..." She tenses in Clark's arms, shivering. "They didn't touch the rest of us afterwards. They didn't—they didn't go after me until the next night."

It's then that Bruce finally moves again, pulling himself up onto the mattress with Clark and Hanna before placing his hand on her knee. "Thank you," he says quietly. "I'm sorry for bringing all this up again. I know how hard this must be for you."

Hanna shakes her head as best she can with it pushed so solidly against Clark's chest. She's quiet for a few heartbeats, before loosening her grip on Clark and finally pulling away altogether. Wiping her eyes with her sleeve, she looks over at him and smiles, her dark eyes crinkling. "I get to help Batman, so. 's not all bad." She looks back down at her knees again, fidgeting with the hem of her shirt. "Are you gonna fight them?"

"When I know how to go about it, yes," Bruce says.

"Good," Hanna says. She glances up again, a faint glimmer of hope in her eyes now. "Give 'em hell for me, Batman."

Bruce's mouth quirks up, and he pats her knee. "I will," he says. "I promise."

* * *

 

They stay another half hour or so, Bruce bringing her back into something resembling a comfort zone by asking her about herself—and this, this she manages with relative ease. The more Bruce coaxes her into talking, the more of her shyness melts away, until she's practically recounting her whole life story. She was an only child in life, she says, she grew up watching _Buffy the Vampire Slayer_. Her mom passed away when she was very young, she lived with her dad, her grandmother and grandfather, in a little apartment with a deaf and affectionate cat. Her dad worked as a postman, sold paintings online on the side. Hanna, meanwhile, wanted to be a mechanical engineer, she was going to try and get a scholarship at Gotham U.

It breaks Clark's heart to hear all of these dreams, broken all because of the mindless cruelty of a single pair of individuals. But as much as it makes his heart ache, he stays, and he listens, as Hanna tells them about her father and grandparents, how she would go out at night after school and bring scrap metal back to their shared apartment, and build whatever she could manage with it, because it made her grandma happy.

"Do you like it here?" Bruce asks eventually.

Hanna pauses then, worrying her lip. "I mean, it's nice, I guess," she says, lifting one shoulder and letting it drop. "Everyone's pretty nice to each other, nobody has to fight over the bathroom since I don't think any of us have to even use it, and Volya's... y'know, trying to make sure everybody's comfortable. It's not so bad." She hesitates, then startles with a quick, snorting laugh. "And I get to watch a bajillion-year-old undead guy play Wii Bowling, too. Guess there's a silver lining to everything, huh?"

Clark tries to imagine Volya playing video games, he really does. Knowing what little he does of the man, though, it just doesn't quite manage to click in his head, and he doubts it ever will.

"I'm not gonna say I'm like, over the moon happy about being here," Hanna is quick to add. "I'd rather be back with my dad, but—I get it, you know? Being around—around normal people," she says, pulling her arms tight around her chest again, "it's hard. I don't want to go back if that means I'm gonna hurt somebody." She sighs. "Volya says you get used to it, that you figure out new things to do with your life, or undeath, or whatever. I hope he's right."

Clark opens his mouth to say something, but as he keeps being forcibly reminded, this is far from his wheelhouse. He can't tell her what she can and can't do with this new life she's been given, simply because he doesn't know. Bruce might be able to reintegrate himself into a semblance of normal life (though, even then, it's at the cost of his daylight identity), but Hanna might not. It isn't his place to speculate, in the end.

The door creaks faintly as it opens, and silhouetted in the low light of the hallway stands Volya, with that same friendly smile in his eyes. "I am most sorry to interrupt," he says, "but I am afraid it is time for all of my dear children to go to bed. If you wish, I can clean up a room for you for the day..."

"That won't be necessary," says Bruce, standing. The mattress creaks when Clark and Hanna follow suit. "We should get going."

Volya nods. "As you wish, my child." He takes a step to the side, bowing at the waist. "If you have need of anything, you need only say so."

"Are you coming back?" Hanna asks, frowning as she looks up at Clark.

Clark, eternally out of his depth, looks to Bruce.

Bruce barely hesitates. "I will," he says solemnly. "Soon, hopefully." He looks at Volya, inclining his head. "I somehow doubt I've learned all there is to know here."

Volya chuckles. "That would take many lifetimes indeed, young man," he says. "But my door is always open to you."

Bruce takes a step forward, towards the door, but Hanna stops him, her movement blurs as she steps in front of him and wraps her arms as best she can around the armor encasing his torso. For a fraction of a second, Bruce just stands there, arms stuck out slightly at his sides, before he folds his arms around her in kind. When Volya softly clears his throat, she pulls back, hesitating as if to say something, before just giving Bruce a quick, almost curt nod and drawing her covers back. Not even bother to kick off her sneakers, Hanna slips under the sheets, and Clark takes that as a perhaps overdue cue to leave.

Out in the hall, the other vampires are shuffling to bed—or coffin, Clark thinks—themselves, barely sparing a glance for him and Bruce as they follow Volya back into the sitting room.

"It is good to see her making friends," Volya says, his voice soft, fond. "She has been so terribly sad since she came here, and truly, it has broken my old heart. Thank you, young man."

Bruce nods, just once. "Talking to her was..." His jaw tightens for a moment. "Enlightening," he says.

Clark, for want of anything he could possibly say—for want of knowledge of what could possibly be going through Bruce's head right now—rests a hand on Bruce's elbow. Bruce doesn't react, either by glancing Clark's way or by flinching back.

"I hope that it was of help to you," Volya says gently. "Is there anything else you need of me, child?"

Bruce shakes his head. "We should go," he says. "Thank you."

Volya smiles. "It has been my pleasure," he says, moving towards the door. He places his hand on the knob, but doesn't turn it. "And my honor. I wish you all the best in your endeavors. Though, if I may, perhaps, ask one favor of my own?"

Clark tenses immediately, the suspicion that had faded into the back of his mind snapping back to the forefront. Bruce, however, doesn't seem to share his anxieties, simply turning his head a fraction of an inch to the side, inviting Volya to continue.

"I am, I will say, somewhat embarrassed," Volya says, his smile turning almost self-deprecating as he looks from Bruce to Clark,  "but, if you would, perhaps you might give my regards to your Amazon friend?"

Clark blinks. He's getting more than a little tired of feeling as though a rug has been pulled out from under him, if he's perfectly honest—first by Bruce actually agreeing to let him come along on this weird little field trip, and now. Now _this._ "Um?"

"I have long admired her, you know," Volya is saying, "though I do suspect I am, maybe, a bit young for her."

Right. Clark is just going to go, then. He clears his throat, reaching out as Volya obligingly draws his hand away from the door. "I'll, uh, see what I can do," he says. He hopes he doesn't look to desperate when he glances back to Bruce. "Ready to go, B?"

Bruce snorts. "Let's go."

* * *

 

The sun-screen enchantment Zatanna put on Bruce seems to be working decently well, Clark thinks; Bruce seems perfectly alert the whole flight back to Metropolis, even through the growing light of dawn. (And, after a fair amount of back-and-forth in the sky over Gotham, Clark knows for certain that it is Metropolis that Bruce wants to return to; he isn't ready to go back to the manor, not yet.

Tomorrow, he promises. Tomorrow night, they'll go back.)

The sky is still dark and gray and wet with the lingering drizzle of last night's rain. And for once, Clark doesn't take too much issue with the gloom of clouds up above. It's in their favor, after all, keeping anyone from staring up into the sky and seeing them before they touch down in an alley a few blocks away from Clark's apartment.

When Bruce regards Clark with what passes, for Bruce, for mild confusion, Clark just holds up a hand. "Let me grab you some... more reasonable clothes," he says. He offers a placating grin. "My neighbors might be a little worried that Batman's in our apartment complex, you know?"

Clark has a feeling Bruce is rolling his eyes at that, but still, Bruce obligingly steps into the alley's deeper shadows, and he waits.

For good measure, Clark grabs a decently-sized cardboard box out of his bedroom—the last of his moving boxes, which he'd never had a chance to put out for recycling—alongside a set of his more ordinary day clothes. He changes into his own civilian clothes, too, while he's at it; any heads that would turn at the sight of Superman won't at the sight of Clark Kent and his tall, silent... God, whatever Bruce is right now. Clark books it out the door, the box held snugly to his hip, and once he's sure no one's looking, uses the speed to get back to the alley where he'd left Bruce to sit.

"This way you don't have to dump the Suit here," Clark explains, putting the box down in front of him. "I'll, uh, turn around if you want."

"There's an undersuit, Clark," Bruce says dryly, but Clark decides it's polite to turn around all the same. He's crossed enough boundaries in just the past twelve hours to last for a few decades, besides. "Fine."

When he hears the sounds of the Suit's catches coming undone, Clark decides it's safe to speak up again. Partly, if he's honest, so he can not hear the Suit's latches coming undone. "So. That was... something."

Bruce just grunts. All right, so they're back to this again. That's fine. It's fine.

"Do you trust him?" Clark asks. "Volya, I mean."

"I won't trust him until I've vetted him properly," Bruce says. There's a soft _whump_ , which Clark assumes is the cape going into the box. "Do you?"

"I don't know," Clark admits. "He certainly seems friendly enough. I guess I trust him more than I would most vampires, but—present company excluded—that's not saying a whole lot."

Bruce snorts at that, but doesn't seem to want to offer up any further commentary. Which is... fair, Clark reminds himself; Bruce has just had to relive yet another version of the night of his own murder, which in all likelihood is going to crawl its way into his nightmares, too. And that's not even touching on the conversation waiting for them when they get back up to Clark's apartment, which Clark can't say he's exactly looking forward to at all.

Tonight's been a lot to process. He gets it.

"You can turn around now," Bruce says, and when Clark does, his expression is one of wry amusement. Clark decides to read that as a mostly good thing. He still looks as strange as ever in Clark's baseball cap and his flannel and his jeans, and Clark very pointedly ignores the fact that the sight makes his heart stutter for a few beats. (Except, of course, the echo stutters too. But Bruce at least has the courtesy not to draw any attention to it.) Bruce hoists the box, which looks for all the world like it's just full of bedsheets, as if it were nothing. "Let's go, then."

It's early yet on a Sunday morning, so the streets, when the two of them pass onto more main pathways, are nearly empty, and nearly silent. And that's fine too, Clark tells himself, even though it means there's nothing to distract him from what has become a decidedly uncomfortable silence. There's nothing out of the ordinary or out of place in Clark's apartment but for the Tupperware soup container full of magical fake blood on his coffee table. Clark goes to the kitchen for coffee while Bruce stuffs the box back in his room—and that's progress, he thinks, in the back of his mind. When Bruce had first come here, he'd been so afraid to be alone with just himself and the dark that he'd been following Clark from the living room to the kitchen if Clark so much as had to wash a bowl, right?

Clark braces himself on the counter and watches as the carafe starts to fill, drip by drip by drip. He can't help but look up when he hears Bruce's faint footfalls on the linoleum, try and gauge how this is going to go by Bruce's face, or his posture, or... _something._ Bruce, however, is as composed and unreadable as he's ever been, which Clark doesn't exactly consider a great sign.

They stand there for what feels like an eon, Clark with his hands on the countertop still and Bruce with his own hands in the pockets of his borrowed jeans. And, fair's fair, Clark thinks; he started this, so it's only natural that he should start this conversation. This is his bed, so to speak, and he needs to lie in it.

"I'm sorry," Clark says. "For last night. That was—I crossed a line back there, one I should never have crossed." He can't quite bear to look Bruce in the eye just then, so he pulls his gaze back to the coffeepot. "I wasn't thinking, and that's—that's no excuse, I know. I'm sorry."

Neither Bruce nor the coffeepot offer up any reply, though the latter at least seems to be drawing near to giving himself something to do other than babble forever.

"For the record," Clark adds, reaching for the fridge for want of something to do with his hands, "I stand by what I said, if not what I did. I care about you. And whatever else you might think, some vampire magic crap isn't going to change that."

Bruce finally makes a sound then, a half-hearted scoff through his nose. But past that, he still offers no retort.

"That talk about me deserving better," Clark continues with a sigh, "is still a load of bull, for what it's worth. Near as I can tell, you're just the same as you ever were, Bruce. Just... maybe with worse eating habits."

The coffeepot dings faintly, and Clark sets about pouring it into the mug and mixing it to his liking. He doesn't hear Bruce's feet as he moves, but over the quiet chime of Clark's spoon against the edges of the mug, he can hear his echoed heartbeat coming closer. And then, light as a breath, Bruce's hand comes to rest on Clark's wrist. Still, he says nothing.

Clark shuts his eyes and bows his head. "Come on, Bruce. Say something. Anything. Please."

For another moment, Bruce stays maddeningly silent—Clark almost wonders if this is some kind of a punishment, but then, Bruce had said before that he wasn't angry with him for that enormous misstep, hadn't he? And, petty as he's been in the past, Bruce isn't _cruel_ , not intentionally, not to the people he calls friends.

"You've been nothing if not a good friend to me," Bruce says quietly. "In life, and... after. A great one, even. This whole week has been proof of that." He pulls his hand back, slips it into his pocket again. Clark turns to see Bruce with his head bowed, his eyes closed. "I don't know what, if anything, I ever did to deserve you, Clark."

This is—he's ridiculous. "It's not about deserving," Clark says. Tentatively, he reaches out, puts a hand on Bruce's arm. Bruce looks up then, his face guarded. "Though, for what it's worth, I think you've done plenty, if you really insist that you must have."

A quarter of a smile teases at the corner of Bruce's mouth, but he says nothing. And Clark—Clark can't help but read too much into that silence, into his insistence of Clark being a good, a great friend. Is this what passes off for letting Clark down gently, setting that line down in the sand by implication alone? If Clark is meant to take a step back based simply on reading into Bruce's words as well as his silence, he's going to lose his mind.

"Bruce."

Bruce drags his gaze back up then, and Clark thinks, maybe, that there's a sort of sadness in the deep blue of his eyes. Clark just isn't sure what kind it is quite yet.

"I can't—I can't keep this up, Bruce," Clark says. "I need to know where you stand. Where we stand. If you want me to just... lock this up and we don't talk about it ever again, fine, but I need the closure. Please, just _talk_ to me."

Bruce gently pushes the mug of coffee closer to Clark's hand, and he sighs. "I'm not going to ask you to do that," he says. "I don't know what I want, Clark.  I'm still trying to figure out all the implications of... this—" here he gestures along the line of his body—"or what it means for you to be around me. I wonder if I'll hurt you by accident one of these nights, just from the nightmares I get. Or if I'd outlive you, if I'd—" He stops, his voice brittle, and takes a breath to draw himself together again. "If I'd outlive you and forget you. I wonder if anything that might happen is real, or if it would just be the effect of some kind of magical bullshit hypnosis..."

Clark dares to reach out then, to rest his hand on Bruce's cheek. His skin is cool to the touch, and Clark wants nothing more than to draw him in, to pull him close and make him warm again. "You know me better than that," he says softly. "This—all this, what I feel, how I feel about you... this is real. I can't promise much, but I can definitely promise you that."

Bruce draws in a shuddering breath, turns his face into Clark's palm. He raises his own hand, holding Clark's right where it is. The breath passes through his parted lips, the cool ghost of air tingling across Clark's wrist.

"What about you?" Clark asks. He traces the sharp line of Bruce's cheekbone with his thumb.

"I feel..." Bruce laughs, a breathless, fractured sound. It breaks Clark's heart to hear. "I feel selfish," he says. "Wanting any of this. But you..." Bruce takes a step forward, lets Clark have his hand back so he can rest both of his own on either side of Clark's neck.

And that should make Clark nervous, shouldn't it, to have a vampire's hands so close to his throat. But it's Bruce. Bruce would never.

What Bruce would do, it turns out, is move within a hair's breadth away from Clark, so close Clark can feel his breath on his lips, and stay there. His eyes, for the briefest of moments, flit from Clark's down to his mouth (or maybe Clark is just hoping, but maybe that's not such a long shot anymore?), and back again. Even without the echo, without whatever hyper-sensitive hearing he has now, there's no way Bruce can't notice how Clark's pulse jumps beneath his palms. God, Clark thinks. Please, please.

"You make me feel alive again," Bruce murmurs.

For the space of a single heartbeat, Bruce lingers so close and so, so far, his nose brushing against Clark's, and then Clark can't stand it anymore. He draws up his hand to card his fingers through Bruce's hair, and kisses him with everything he has.

And this time, Bruce kisses back.

Bruce kisses him back, and he's as demanding and firm and wonderful as Clark has definitely never dreamed of, pushing Clark against the counter hard enough to make the coffee cup rattle. His hands are—his hands are _everywhere_ , first on Clark's neck and then in his hair, pressed up against his back, skating his ribs and stomach and hips and it's almost overwhelming but there's not a chance in hell that Clark's going to tell him to stop. When Bruce's tongue traces the seam of Clark's lips, Clark obligingly parts them for him, a quiet sigh passing from his lungs and into Bruce's mouth as Bruce explores there too, even as his hands go still at Clark's sides, Clark's shirt rucked up by Bruce's wandering fingers.

Clark's glasses, at some point, end up on the counter, next to his now tepid coffee. He's not sure when that happens, or when, exactly, Bruce finally draws back to let Clark breathe. He doesn't step away, doesn't move his warming hands from Clark's ribs—his mouth is still on Clark, just barely, his lips moving against Clark's when he finally speaks again.

"See," says Bruce, and Clark can feel his smile, "this is exactly what I was afraid of. You killing my self-control."

"Pretty sure that's never been possible," Clark says, rolling his eyes and closing the distance between them again. Because he wants to, and he's allowed to want to now, and—God, against all odds, Bruce wants to too.

This time, Bruce lets Clark take his time, lets him move against Bruce with the steady patience of the tides. Clark's hands come to rest along Bruce's back, pulling him flush against his chest, and Bruce just draws impossibly closer, pushing Clark against the counter until Clark has no choice but to plant his feet on either side of Bruce's boots, letting Bruce slot himself between Clark's thighs. Bruce brings his hands back to Clark's face, his neck.

"Your coffee's going to get cold," Bruce breathes, eyes cracking open.

"To hell with the coffee," Clark murmurs, and kisses him again.   


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.
> 
> As ever, thanks to my dear beta, KathrynShadow, and to all of you, leaving your lovely comments and kudos and keeping me going like the champs you are. Love y'all. <3


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It feels like a weight off his back, it feels like giving in, like leaping from the roof of a ten-story building all at once.
> 
> But then, Clark has nearly always been there to catch him when Bruce couldn't catch himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Heads-up to all y'all, this chapter is basically smut with some fuzzy nice feelings thrown in. If smut isn't your cup of tea, you won't be missing much if you decide to skip, and you can go with my blessing. <3

Clark is—is warm, so warm, his skin under Bruce's palms and his breath against Bruce's lips like the breath of life itself, and so overwhelmingly gentle, as if he can actually do any damage if he dares to manhandle Bruce now. His ankles press against the backs of Bruce's thighs, not firm enough to really hold Bruce there, but enough to hint that maybe, just maybe, he should stay where he is.

As if he'd want to leave now that he's found himself here. It feels like a weight off his back, it feels like giving in, like leaping from the roof of a ten-story building all at once.

But then, Clark has nearly always been there to catch him when Bruce couldn't catch himself.

Clark's heart practically sings in Bruce's ears, the desperate rush of it pounding under his hands. And Clark's own hands are firm, perfectly steady—in stark contrast to his little voiceless, breathless gasps, the tremble in his chest and his legs as he moves—as he starts to explore, touching almost as much of Bruce's body as he can physically reach, as slow and as patient as the turning of the Earth. He's nearly shy in how he kisses Bruce, would be shy if it weren't for those wanting little cants of his hips, the faint breath of a sigh as Bruce draws his tongue up against his own again.

Clark's mouth is so terribly, wonderfully, incongruously soft, his lips warm and pliant as they move against Bruce's. He tastes like—like dawn, like hope, like life and warmth and safety. Bruce wants to drown himself in it, to let himself get swept up in the waves of Clark's unceasing, overwhelming affection and let it flood him through. 

God. Bruce needs to get a lid on this before it gets out of control. If something went wrong, if he manages to bleed out this one spot of joy in this new life—he'd never forgive himself, no matter the centuries that might pass.

"Clark," Bruce breathes, not bothering to draw back. He can feel, taste Clark's breath against his mouth. If there's even the remotest possibility that he can still get drunk after his resurrection, he thinks that he wouldn't need to in the first place, that the tender warmth of Clark would be enough.

For a moment, Clark doesn't respond, or even seem to notice. His eyes are closed, which means Bruce can't be unbalanced by the stunning, unearthly blue of them. "Hm?" Clark murmurs. "Something the matter?"

That shouldn't be as complicated a question as it is. If Bruce said the word, he knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that Clark would stop, would go back to his coffee and let Bruce retreat, or sleep, or—anything to keep himself from doing something profoundly stupid. The issue, then, is that Bruce doesn't  _ want _ him to stop, doesn't want anything in this very moment more than for Clark to pull him closer, to enfold Bruce in his warmth and make him forget everything short of Clark's name.

"...No," Bruce says eventually. He closes his eyes. "Just—just kiss me."

Clark's laugh is rich and deep in his chest, the sound rumbling against Bruce through their clothes and settling deep in Bruce's bones. If that was the last sound he ever heard, Bruce thinks, that might not be so bad. He obeys, fingers threading through Bruce's hair to draw him in again. One of Bruce's hands comes to rest on Clark's face (he doesn't let himself think long on how Clark can feel every divot and whorl of his fingerprints, doesn't think of what a beautiful onslaught of sensation that must be—), the other slipping under that ridiculous flannel to come to rest over Clark's pounding heart.

"Wasn't planning on stopping any time soon, you know," Clark says, despite doing just that for the time it takes to speak, but Bruce isn't about to point that out. Partly, if he's honest with himself, because Clark's own hands have started wandering again, and it's taking more self-control than Bruce would like to admit not to arch against those wondering touches, or to contemplate what it would be to have that awed, half-focused meandering drawn in other directions. 

He shouldn't. He doesn't. 

Bruce doesn't need to breathe, except to draw Clark in until his senses are swimming with him. The steady, firm heat of his hands against Bruce's shoulders, his back, his hips. The whisper of his breath on Bruce's lips, his heart singing under Bruce's hand. God, the  _ smell _ of him. Independent of the honey-rich warmth of his— _ essence _ feels too flowery but Bruce won't even touch the notion that he finds himself so hungry for Clark's blood—but independent of that, Clark smells... good, in a way that Bruce can't quite put to words. Sweet, but not overwhelming, except for how it's all Bruce can bear to breathe in now.

"Bruce," Clark murmurs, drawing back. Bruce opens his mouth to say something, before Clark arches his neck and silences him with the gentle heat of his breath and his lips against Bruce's throat. "I want...." 

Bruce shivers and tilts his head, bares his throat to Clark's attentions. How can he not? He shuts his eyes, not trusting himself to speak.

Clark's hands come to rest on the collar of Bruce's shirt—of Clark's shirt, fingers teasing at the topmost button. Bruce is weak; for all that he has become, he thinks, he's still human. (At least, for the time being.) He shouldn't, but he does, he lets his head fall back and he lets Clark do as he will. 

What he will, as it happens, is to undo each button with an almost maddening slowness, his hands not trembling or faltering as more and more of Bruce's skin is bared to Clark's marveling eyes. Clark trails his fingers down the sliver of Bruce's exposed chest, follows it with his lips, and Bruce knows he should say something, anything, but he can't. He lets Clark touch him and kiss him and turn him until the small of his back is pressed up against the sharp edge of the counter, and Clark—Clark is kneeling before him, hands braced on Bruce's thighs as he looks up to meet Bruce's eyes, lips parted.

Bruce's next breath comes in as a shaking gasp, leaves as a quiet shiver. He dares to let his hand come to rest on Clark's cheek, his chest tightening as Clark turns his head to kiss his palm.

"Clark," Bruce says again, and then falters. He should say  _ something _ , should reiterate that this isn't a good idea (but that ship has sailed), make sure this is what he really wants (but Clark's eyes are clear, clear and wanting), maybe, at the very least, tell him they should consider not doing this in his kitchen, but all the words go dry in his throat in the face of Clark's open-faced desire.

Clark wets his lips, scrapes his teeth over the lower, and draws one hand up to Bruce's belt. "May I?"

Bruce swallows. It doesn't help. "Not here," he manages. Good enough.

It would help Bruce's resolve a great deal if Clark didn't dimple when he smiled, or if he didn't duck his head, or if that little self-deprecating laugh wasn't so low and rich. Clark stands, his hands resting on Bruce's hips as he catches Bruce's mouth with his again. His hands move, slowly, down to the backs of Bruce's thighs, as gentle as Bruce could ever dream—if this were what he dreamt of, if his rest were filled with Clark's shy little smiles and not his final gasping breaths—

Clark lifts Bruce up, hooking Bruce's knees over his hips and chasing every single coherent thought out of his head. "Okay," he says softly, smiling against Bruce's mouth. "Okay."

Bruce is never not cognizant of Clark's strength. He's seen Superman bend and shred titanium with his bare hands, watched him lift an accordion bus with one hand—and watched him cradle a crying child in his arms, or take a kitten down from a tree without so much as mussing up its fur. Just because he doesn't have to breathe doesn't mean that the reminder, the ease with which Clark hoists him up and carries him across the apartment, doesn't leave him a little breathless. He doesn't have any reason to brace himself, either—Clark has everything well in hand—but Bruce draws his arms around the back of Clark's neck anyway, unable to bite back a smile before he steals another kiss.

The mattress is soft and cool against Bruce's back as Clark lays him out, and cooler still when Clark (finally) pulls the shirt all the way off of Bruce's chest. (The sheets, too, are awash in that warm-sweet-wonderful smell, leaving Bruce dizzy with desire.) Clark's hands move across Bruce's body again, leaving a trail of warmth across every inch of Bruce's skin that they touch. He doesn't stop kissing Bruce, either—his mouth, his forehead, his throat, his collarbone, his stomach—

Clark's fingers find the buckle of Bruce's belt again. He draws back, the question plain on his face. Bruce is fairly sure he couldn't speak now even if he wanted to. He just nods.

It's ridiculous, Bruce thinks hazily, how radiantly happy Clark can look just because he's been allowed to undo Bruce's belt, let it fall back so he can undo the button of these cheap jeans. The faint grind of the zipper as Clark pulls it down is nearly deafening. Bruce watches, transfixed, as Clark draws himself down Bruce's body, slips his fingers below the waistband of his pants and pulls them down Bruce's thighs. Those bright blue eyes draw across Bruce's body, tracking every faded scar, every knife and bullet wound.

Bruce stays perfectly still as Clark's hands trace the lines of his thighs, his calves, before coming to his feet to pull off his shoes. His touches are tender, almost reverent, for something as simple as pulling off Bruce's socks, as if he can't quite believe that he's allowed to do this. As if Bruce is somehow doing  _ Clark _ a favor.

The denim drags across Bruce's skin as Clark pulls his pants all the way down, drawing them back and letting them fall to the floor with a soft clatter as the belt hits the ground. Clark pulls himself back up Bruce's body, his shirt scratching at Bruce's chest as he draws close to kiss Bruce again. Bruce does his absolute level best to stay still, to keep his hips from arching up just for the sake of whatever friction he can get. 

Clark, of course, kills that last bit of self-control, his hand unbearably warm as he palms Bruce through the last layer of fabric separating them. Bruce barely manages to bite back the moan rising up in his throat, but he can't keep himself from moving up against Clark's hand. He can feel Clark smile against his mouth. Bastard.

And then he's gone—not gone, but moving back down Bruce's chest, tracing a path down with his lips, his tongue,  _ God. _ Bruce pushes himself up, props himself onto his elbows as Clark settles between his thighs, fingers hooking under the elastic waistband of Bruce's briefs. Thankfully, Clark doesn't linger long, instead (finally) drawing them down Bruce's hips with a few quick tugs, then down his thighs, before pulling them off altogether and letting them fall onto the floor with the rest of Bruce's borrowed clothes.

"Huh," Clark says, worrying his lip as he brings his hand between Bruce's legs. "Wonder how  _ that _ works."

Bruce growls in frustration. "I don't really know if I care right this second," he says. "Clark.  _ Please. _ "

Clark has the audacity to grin as he curls his fingers around the base of Bruce's erection, his touch teasingly light as he starts to stroke him. "Not even a little curious?" he asks, using his free hand to draw Bruce's knee over his shoulder, lightly nipping Bruce's thigh.

"Not right  _ now _ ," Bruce says. He lifts a hand, drags his fingers through Clark's hair just to watch his eyelids flutter closed. "Clark," he says again.

Which seems to be all the encouragement Clark needs. He shifts, pulling himself onto his knees until he's bent over Bruce's legs, hands braced on Bruce's thighs. For a moment, Bruce wonders, with a flare of want, what exactly Clark's planning on doing here. But Clark doesn't make him guess long.

Bruce falters, shaking deep in his bones as Clark draws his lips over the head of Bruce's cock and  _ oh _ ,  _ oh— _ Bruce's fingers tighten in Clark's hair. Clark hums around him, his head dipping lower, and lower, tongue moving slowly against Bruce's skin. One hand comes to rest just above Bruce's hip, the other wrapping itself around Bruce's shaft again and slowly,  _ God _ so slowly stroking him in time with the movement of Clark's lips up and down the length of him. 

It's—mesmerizing, in a way, to see Clark like this, to watch him as he moves. His eyes are closed, his face flushed and focused and intent. There's a single curl out of place, falling down his forehead. Bruce brushes it back, trembling—trembling more when Clark hums again, the sound rumbling against Bruce's cock and dragging a low, breathless sound from his throat. 

He feels as though he should be doing something. Anything, other than lying back and just taking in Clark's gentle, steady attentions. Bruce wants—Bruce needs to touch him, somehow. But Clark's too far to reach anything but his scalp, the back of his neck. Bruce's hand settles instead on his cheek, thumb just brushing across the steadily shifting muscles of Clark's jaw. 

Clark draws back, his lips wrapped around Bruce until he pulls away completely—and then again, as he trails the curve of it with slow, open-mouthed kisses.

Bruce arches without thinking, sucks in a slow, shuddering breath. "Clark," he gasps.

When Clark glances up, his eyes are—dark, in a way Bruce has never seen until today, in a way that makes heat and hunger and need coil hot in the bottom of Bruce's stomach, at the base of his spine. Clark wets his (barely reddened) lips, and he keeps stroking Bruce in that steady, unerring rhythm. "Mm?" is all he says.

Bruce worries his lower lip, tries to pull his thoughts into some semblance of coherence. Clark's hand on him does not help. Neither, frankly, does the bare desire in those eyes. He's not even sure what he should say. That Clark is a goddamn miracle, that he's unbearably gorgeous, that Bruce doesn't and has never deserved him—

Clark speaks first, pulling Bruce out of his thoughts. "You're beautiful," he murmurs, and draws his lips around Bruce again.

The warmth of Clark's other hand is—is almost overwhelming, leaving sparks of want across Bruce's skin everywhere he touches. Clark's fingers map the shifting planes of Bruce's chest, his stomach. Bruce shudders, wanting to close his eyes but not wanting to miss even a second of what Clark is doing to him. The motion of Clark's mouth and hand is a slow, tantalizing build, not nearly quick or rough enough for Bruce to properly get off on, but enough to leave him shaking under those sweet touches, thighs trembling as he fights to keep himself still. He threads his fingers through Clark's hair over and over and over, desperate, wanting.

If Bruce had ever allowed himself to consider it, he never would have thought that Clark was the sort of person to give such... comprehensive oral. Though it—it makes sense, he supposes, with Clark's attentiveness, his constant concern for everyone's wellbeing, his attention to detail. Bruce runs his hand down the back of Clark's neck, rubbing his shoulder in slow, halting strokes. 

Later, he thinks hazily, later he'll find some way to return the favor. Maybe not precisely mirror it—the risk of what his teeth might do is slightly too present in his mind for that—but he'll think of something.

Bruce's hand comes to rest in Clark's hair again, and Clark lets out a soft moan around him before drawing back until his lips are only wrapped around the head, his cheeks going hollow as he sucks.

Bruce jerks underneath Clark's touch. "Clark," he breathes. 

This time Clark just chuckles around Bruce before he starts to—finally,  _ finally _ —pick up a pace and a rhythm. Bruce arches up again, biting back a helpless groan as Clark's hand and mouth move around him, and Clark—Clark, he thinks, might be encouraging him to start slowly thrusting into his mouth, judging by how he keeps moaning like that. 

And—judging by the color across his cheeks, creeping down what little Bruce can see of his throat, Clark is enjoying this almost as much as Bruce is. That sends another frisson down Bruce's back, over his entire body, the thought that wants this, wants to be here between Bruce's legs just for the sake of it, that Bruce's pleasure gives him equal measures of the same.

There's a familiar heat gathering at the base of Bruce's spine, growing steadily in its intensity. He can feel his muscles start to tighten, the tiny motions of his hips turning quick and erratic. "Clark," he says again, urgent. "Clark, please—"

Clark glances up at Bruce through his eyelashes, eyes gleaming, and Bruce breaks.

His body is still but for the tremors of his hips, the tension in his stomach, the frantic jerk of his fingers still buried in Clark's hair. He chokes out a sound that tries to be Clark's name, his head falling back as his orgasm crashes into him with the unwavering force of a tsunami. Clark's free hand finds his, somehow, squeezes his fingers as Bruce shudders through it, as Bruce falls back against the mattress, boneless.

Clark doesn't move until Bruce has gone completely still, eyes closed and mouth slack from the force of his climax. Bruce feels the mattress shift, hears it creak faintly as Clark snugs up against his side, as if—as if the sheer goddamn unevenness of all of this is all just fine, as if he thinks it's perfectly reasonable to drag an orgasm out of Bruce with that unreasonable tongue without expecting Bruce to do anything in kind except to let himself be held. 

God, Clark's shirt is  _ itchy _ against Bruce's oversensitized skin. "Clark."

Clark shifts just enough to press his lips to Bruce's throat. "Yes?"

"Lie back, you—" Bruce rolls his eyes, pushes himself up and throws a thigh over Clark's hips. He presses against Clark, just a little, rolls his hips down just to hear the strangled noise that jerks itself from Clark's throat. Not exactly romantic, but it gets his point across. "Let me help you out of these," Bruce says, fingers on the top button of Clark's shirt. Turnabout, he thinks.

Clark wets and bites his lip again. Bruce leans down and kisses it. "Okay," Clark breathes, pushing himself up. 

Bruce's efforts to get Clark's shirt off are somewhat hindered by Clark's apparent inability not to be kissing Bruce at all times now that he's allowed to, his tongue seemingly determined to map out as much of Bruce's mouth as he can reach. (Bruce can taste himself on Clark with perfect clarity. He shivers.) His hands are so, so warm as they trail across Bruce's bare back, but that doesn't exactly help Bruce to tug his sleeves off of those broad shoulders. 

Eventually, though, persistence wins out, and Bruce can touch Clark's bare skin as much as he pleases. Mostly. His damn pants are still in the way, but he's (mostly) willing to be patient. Clark's hands find and grasp Bruce's ass, pulling him closer, which is—which is also not what Bruce is going for, but he can maybe make this work. He grinds down against Clark again, ignoring how rough the denim of his pants feels against his skin, unable and unwilling to bite back a grin when Clark groans and bucks up to meet him. 

"I can do more," Bruce points out, drawing his hand down to Clark's pants, "if you actually let me take these  _ off _ ."

"Right," Clark says, a little shaky. "Right. Of course. Sorry."

_ Sorry _ , as if this is an inconvenience for Bruce and it's not Clark's cock straining against his pants right now. Bruce doesn't roll his eyes again, barely, instead moving just far enough down Clark's legs to undo his belt and draw his pants and underwear down in the same series of quick, efficient tugs.  

Clark is...

Clark is magnificent, and Bruce can't help but sit back and drink in the sight of him, naked and breathless and stunningly, beautifully hard for him. He blushes, Bruce notes, with his whole chest, patches of reddish pink from his throat to his ribs. The longer Bruce stares, the more intensely he goes red, until Clark is glancing away almost bashfully like he hadn't had Bruce's cock in his throat barely a minute ago.

He's ridiculous. He's ridiculous, and the rush of fondness that floods Bruce then is so startling in its intensity that it terrifies him.

Bruce has, he thinks, better things to do than to consider how dangerous it is for him to fall for—for anyone, how dangerous it always has been and how dangerous it is especially now. Better things like the man lying prone before him, hard and wanting, staring expectantly with those bright blue eyes. So Bruce crawls back up the bed, lets Clark stare his fill of Bruce's naked body before he slots himself against Clark's side, one leg slipping between Clark's thighs, and kisses him breathless. 

Clark makes a confused noise against Bruce's lips, cuts it off with a desperate moan as Bruce moves a hand between his legs, cups Clark's balls before curling his fingers around his shaft. 

"Bruce—" Clark starts, cuts himself off again as he shivers under Bruce when Bruce starts to stroke him. " _ God _ , Bruce," he breathes, his back arching. 

Bruce's only regret is that he can't see Clark's whole body this way, can't watch him buck up into his hand, but the little wanting tremors he can feel are enough, he thinks, for now. He kisses wherever he can reach—Clark's jaw, his cheek, his mouth, feeling every quiet gasp, every muted whimper against his lips. Clark's hand comes up to the back of Bruce's head, fingers tangling in Bruce's hair and tugging him in close. And Bruce remembers, again, that he has seen those hands tear through steel, or pummel a building into rubble; that the tiniest spasm could crush his skull. That should frighten him, he thinks. It  _ should. _

But Clark would never.

Clark, instead... he doesn't beg, exactly—not in words. He instead jerks against Bruce's body, into his hand, shaking with the tension of it and it's absolutely obscene, those wanting motions and desperate little breaths as he chases his release.

For a moment, Bruce considers properly returning the favor, being as slow and methodical about this as he can get. But, on second thought, he thinks he'd much rather see Clark come as quickly, as magnificently and spectacularly as he can manage in this moment. So he quickens the pace of his hand, listens for how Clark moans, for those wanting little whimpers, and moves accordingly. 

"That's it," Bruce murmurs against the shell of Clark's ear. "That's it, tell me how you like it..."

Clark trembles. "Bruce," he says, just on the edge of an actual whine. "God, Bruce,  _ please _ —"

Who is Bruce to say no to that?

Bruce pulls at Clark with just a little more urgency, a little harder, and  _ that _ jerks a series of ever so slightly louder groans out of Clark's throat as he tilts his head against the pillow, baring his throat as his Adam's apple trembles with each breath. He feels Clark shaking, nearly vibrating from the intensity of it all, his breath catching on a desperate litany of  _ Bruce, Bruce, Bruce— _

When Clark comes, Bruce learns, he goes completely silent, biting down hard on his lips and squeezing his eyes shut as he quakes. His hips twitch up into Bruce's hand once, twice-thrice in rapid, erratic succession as he spills over Bruce's knuckles, his own stomach. He relaxes, muscle by muscle, his lips parting on a quiet sigh.

Clinically, Bruce drags his fingers through the mess Clark's made, brings them up to his lips just as Clark cracks his eyes open.

"Oh," Clark breathes. "All right, then."

The taste of it is... well, no more or less appealing to Bruce now than any typical food or drink has become, so he supposes that's a positive, if a minuscule one. He pulls himself flush against Clark's chest, kisses him slow and deep. Clark's hands come to rest on his shoulder blades, pressing him impossibly closer, still shivering.

When Bruce draws away, falling onto his back beside Clark, there are tear-tracks down Clark's cheeks. Bruce feels his chest tighten with terror—did he manage to hurt him somehow, did—but Clark just turns over onto his side, kisses Bruce on the cheek.

"Sorry," Clark murmurs, and he's... he's smiling, so—"It's just—a lot, sometimes. All the sensations, and the... you know. And after all that—" He laughs, and then sniffles, wipes his eyes with the back of his hand. "I'm fine, I promise. You've just gotten me kind of weepy, that's all. Been a hell of a week."

That much, Bruce can't quite argue with. He closes the distance between them again, kisses the tears from Clark's cheeks. "You're sure?"

"Positive," Clark says, still smiling as he catches Bruce's mouth with his. "How about you? That was... something, wasn't it?"

Bruce snorts. "Something," he echoes. "I'm..." He hesitates, suddenly unsure.  _ Fine _ feels inadequate, and if he's completely honest, it's been so long since he felt this comfortable that he isn't quite sure what to do with it. "This has certainly been one of the better days of my new life," he says instead, lips pulling at a smirk.

Clark laughs. "Glad to hear it," he says. He shifts, and then immediately grimaces, glancing down at himself. "I think I might need a shower." His tongue runs along his lower lip again, and Bruce thinks he should be commended for the restraint he shows in not leaning back in to kiss it. "Care to join me?"

It's early morning yet, Bruce thinks. He doesn't exactly have any plans that can be carried out well in broad daylight, and as such, he has nowhere in particular to go. So he pushes himself up, sits up against the headboard. "Twist my arm," he says.

Those dimples should be outlawed, Bruce thinks, chest tightening as Clark gets up and out of bed. Bruce thinks he could probably be forgiven for staring as Clark walks around the bed, flawless body gloriously, gloriously naked. He watches the muscles of Clark's legs shift as he moves, wets his lips. Just as he opens his mouth to say something—tell Clark how unfairly good he looks without the suit, or that ridiculous flannel—Clark's arms slip under Bruce's knees, his shoulders, startling a laugh out of him as Clark lifts him off the mattress. Wrapping his arms around Clark's neck, Bruce takes another kiss.

Clark eventually lets him put his feet back on the ground, once they've made it to the bathroom and the door has  _ click _ ed shut behind them. There isn't much for him to do, given they're both already stripped, so Bruce just leans against the vanity, watches Clark draw back the shower curtain and get the water running.  Steam starts billowing up over the curtain, and while Bruce had preferred much, much colder showers in life...

Well. He could use a little warmth now.

He can't quite keep himself from smiling a little when Clark turns, his face so painfully earnest as he reaches out to take Bruce's hand and pull him in. Bruce lets himself be pulled, lets Clark drag him into his orbit and into the hot spray, lets Clark drag his hands through his hair, over every inch of his body, until all that's left is the water, the heat, and the lingering sweetness of that smell that's just  _ Clark. _

By the time Clark turns the water off, Bruce feels hazy, warm, pliant. Evidently, Bruce thinks through the fog of sleep, the sun-shield doesn't quite keep him from getting tired in the daytime.

Clark towels him off, too, when he notices the tiredness in Bruce's eyes, dries his hair with patient, gentle motions. And Clark kisses him, slow and deep, before carrying him back to the bedroom, drawing the sheets and blankets over Bruce. Bruce watches, eyes half-lidded, as Clark slips into his pajamas—it is, Bruce recognizes distantly, still Sunday; he has nowhere to be, no one to impress—and moves towards the door.

Clark stops. He turns, staring at Bruce with his heart beating steadily, no fear or want to drive his pulse up. Bruce doesn't have to say anything before Clark is walking back to the bed, pulling himself under the covers next to Bruce and tangling them, irrevocably, together.

"Good night, Bruce," Clark murmurs, and kisses Bruce's forehead. "Sleep well."

And Bruce, by some absolute miracle—the miracle lying beside him—does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HUGE THANKS AS EVER to KathrynShadow for her loveliness and beta-ing. (And for filling my JL coda needs over [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/12770841) oh my god please read this oneshot it's so sweet and nice.)
> 
> And thank all of you lovelies for being so encouraging with your lovely comments and your kudos and your loveliness. Love y'all. <3
> 
> Questions, comments, a bucket full of tiny adorable frogs that need a new home? Hit me up over @ lordvitya on Tumblr; I'd love to hear from you!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "So," Clark says as he pulls on a pair of jeans, "what's on the agenda tonight?"  
> Bruce runs a hand through his hair and sighs. The thought of going back to Gotham, to the manor, to his family, should not fill him with the dread that creeps into his bones now. He has a handle on things, or so he tells himself; there's no need to worry for their safety. He's been in an enclosed space with Dick, alone, and nothing happened.   
> But. That word echoes in his head like the unceasing tick of an old clock. But. But. But.  
> What if?  
> He knows that this is Clark giving him an out—he had promised, on the flight back to Metropolis, that he would finally go back to them, let them know once and for all that he's alive. Or... close enough, at least. Clark isn't going to push him unless and until he thinks it'd be to Bruce's detriment not to.   
> Which leaves Bruce to push himself.  
> "Gotham," Bruce grates out. "Back home."

Bruce wakes slowly.

Bruce wakes slowly, almost wholly buried under an unreasonably thick quilt, an arm wrapped around Clark's chest, their naked legs tangled together such that it's difficult to say where one man ends and the other begins. Clark's chest rises and falls, slowly, slowly, his heart a measured beat. One hand is threaded through Bruce's hair, the other—Bruce cracks an eye open—is holding a book. 

How long has Clark been lying here awake with Bruce draped over him like this? They had—Bruce had fallen asleep sometime in the early to mid-morning, and judging by the clock, it's early evening now. Bruce tries not to feel guilty for effectively stealing Clark's entire afternoon just by rendering him almost unable to move. He closes his eyes again, shifts until his ear is just above Clark's heart, until Clark's murmured greeting reverberates against his cheek.

"Evening, sleepyhead," Clark says, leaning down and kissing the crown of Bruce's head. His voice is low, warm, washing over Bruce like the evening tide. "Sleep well?"

Bruce makes a show of yawning, taking an only somewhat sadistic pleasure in how Clark yawns in reply. "Better than I have in a while," he says, reluctantly pushing himself off of Clark's chest so the man can sit up. "Sorry if I ended up monopolizing you."

Clark closes his book and swats Bruce with it. "It's been a while since I had a legitimately lazy Sunday," he says. "I should thank you."

The notion that Clark should be thanking Bruce for anything—when Clark is the one who pulled Bruce out of the grave; when Clark housed him, clothed him, fed him, soothed him; when Clark is the one who took a dead man and breathed life into his empty lungs—is so ludicrous that Bruce almost laughs outright. Almost. Instead, he rolls his eyes, stretches up and kisses the line of Clark's jaw. "If you say so," he murmurs. "You're welcome."

Clark catches Bruce's chin before he can move away, eyes gleaming before he leans in a little and kisses Bruce on the mouth. He draws away before Bruce can properly react, dog-earing his page and resting the book on his nightstand. Bruce watches Clark push back the covers—maybe lets his eyes linger a little longer than strictly necessary, but he was only human, once—and then push himself off the bed. Watches Clark rifle through his chest of drawers, tossing a pair of plaid boxers over his shoulder at Bruce's head before slipping into a pair of his own.

"So," Clark says as he pulls on a pair of jeans, "what's on the agenda tonight?"

Bruce runs a hand through his hair and sighs. The thought of going back to Gotham, to the manor, to his family, should not fill him with the dread that creeps into his bones now. He has a handle on things, or so he tells himself; there's no need to worry for their safety. He's been in an enclosed space with Dick, alone, and nothing happened. 

But. That word echoes in his head like the unceasing tick of an old clock. But. But. But.

What if?

And he knows that this is Clark giving him an out—he had promised, on the flight back to Metropolis, that he would finally go back to them, let them know once and for all that he's alive. Or... close enough, at least. Clark isn't going to push him unless and until he thinks it'd be to Bruce's detriment not to. 

Which leaves Bruce to push himself.

"Gotham," Bruce grates out. "Back home."

Clark turns, his expression so soft and gentle it almost hurts. He walks back towards the bed, leaning against the mattress and cupping Bruce's jaw in his hand. "You're doing the right thing, Bruce," he says softly, his lips brushing Bruce's forehead. "Do you want to call ahead, or—?"

"No," Bruce says before Clark can even consider finishing that sentence. He grimaces. "No, I—I can't," he says, eyes downcast. "Better to just... go, keep things from getting too crowded." 

"Okay," says Clark, drawing back. He kneels down between Bruce's knees, takes Bruce's hand and tangles their fingers together. "Just—let me know what you need, okay?"

Bruce gives a humorless laugh. What he needs is for there to be some way to reverse all this, to wholly negate any risk involved in something as simple as seeing his goddamn children again just because he isn't sure whether he might be tempted to tear into them like some kind of animal. What he needs is for this to never have happened, for his family not to have to worry about a blood-drinking corpse taking up residence in the darkness under their feet. What he needs is a cure, but that isn't an option. What he needs is a way to ensure his children's safety. 

"I need to eat," he says. Winces, because that's not how he meant to say that at all. "Before we go. I need to eat."

Clark squeezes Bruce's hand before pushing himself to his feet. Bruce takes a deep breath and follows suit, pausing only to put on the clothes Clark had thrown at him moments ago. 

That tepid cup of coffee is still sitting on the counter, full as it had been when Clark had made it. Bruce allows himself a small smile as he watches Clark grimace at it before he dumps the whole thing into the sink, turning the faucet on with extreme prejudice. He hides his face behind the refrigerator door, taking his time looking through it for one of his Tupperware containers—not that it takes long to find any, not that there aren't half a dozen of the things scattered amongst Clark's actual food. 

Bruce turns, letting himself lean against the counter while Clark pokes through the rest of the kitchen.

"I think I'll have a bite too, if—" Clark stops himself, closes his eyes as a blush creeps down from his ears to his neck. "I mean, I think I'll have a quick dinner too. Before we leave. If that's okay."

Bruce is halfway to reaching for an actual cup out of the cupboard, but he has to stop and glance at Clark sidelong after that, one eyebrow up. "Feel free," he says, and pulls a decently sized mug down from the stack Clark keeps in there. "Trust me, Clark, I'm in no real hurry. As far as I'm concerned, you have all night."

Clark rubs at the back of his neck and clears his throat. "All right," he says. "If you're sure." He eyes Bruce pouring the synthetic blood into a separate cup with a slight cringe, but he doesn't say anything.

Silence stretches out between them as Bruce drinks and Clark rifles through his fridge for something to eat himself. Bruce downs the contents of his mug in just one go, stares at the crimson-stained bottom of it. His stomach twists and snarls—full, yes, but barely sated, if at all. 

The microwave drones, the kitchen fills up with the smell of leftover spare ribs, and Bruce pointedly ignores how the hunger still rumbles in his stomach even after he's drained his mug. He doesn't let himself feel any creeping dread in his chest, doesn't think about how satisfied he had felt after the bag of real, human blood back at the safehouse, doesn't let himself consider the implications of the hunger persisting now. He pours more synthetic blood into the mug and chugs that too.

Clark sits up on the counter with his plate, the painfully loud sounds of tearing meat the only thing fracturing the quiet. Bruce busies himself with washing up, watches the dregs of diluted blood pool around the edges of the drain before finally spilling into the mouth of it. He closes his eyes.

Clark's hand comes to rest on his shoulders. "You okay, B?"

That's a hell of a loaded question. Bruce sighs. He could always say no, say the truth, say he's worried the hunger will overcome him still, and that he'd rather die another hundred times before having his family's blood on his hands. But he's made it this far, hasn't he? "I'll be fine," he says. 

If Clark hears the low growl of Bruce's stomach then (and how could he not), he does a surprisingly good job pretending he hadn't. He places his plate down at the bottom of the sink and runs the tap to wash away the sauce and fat. Bruce focuses on that, on the sound of running water and the nauseous smell of normal human food. He feels Clark's warm breath against his scalp in the brief second before he feels Clark's lips.

"You will," Clark promises.

* * *

Bruce opts to wait until well into the night, after Dick and anyone he might bring with him will go on patrol, before dragging himself back to Clark's bedroom for more clothes. (He drinks another two full containers of synthetic blood in the meantime, until the gnawing pang in his stomach finally starts to fade into something remotely manageable.) After some deliberation, Bruce opts to take civilian clothes rather than his uniform; if whoever's in the manor at this hour can see his whole face, they'll be more inclined to trust him. 

He steps back out into Clark's living room, hands in his pockets. "I'm ready," he lies.

Clark is already on his feet, a plain satchel slung over his shoulder, smiling as he crosses the distance between them. "It'll be fine," he says gently. "You've done great this whole time; a little change of scenery isn't going to make a big difference."

Bruce wishes he had the same kind of confidence in himself that Clark seems to have. "If something goes wrong—" He puts up a hand before Clark can interject. "If something goes wrong, I want you to make sure whoever's there gets out safely. I want your priority to be anything with a pulse before you even consider trying to subdue me. I don't want you getting hurt, either."

Clark hesitates, face twisted up with concern. "I will," he says eventually. He puts a hand on Bruce's shoulder. "Bruce, is something wrong? You're being... moodier than usual."

Bruce bows his head. "I'm just preparing for whatever might happen, that's all," he says. "I don't want anyone getting hurt because of my—because of me."

The words are barely out of Bruce's mouth before Clark pulls him in, folds his arms around Bruce's ribs.  Clark presses his face into Bruce's neck. "You'll be fine," Clark murmurs, breath too warm on Bruce's skin. "Believe me. You'll be fine."

* * *

It's past midnight by the time they arrive in the airspace above Wayne Manor, the full moon's light spilling out over the surface of the neighboring lake. Bruce has kept silent the whole flight here; even if the wind weren't liable to drown out his voice, he doesn't trust himself to speak. 

(What will they think of him now? How will they see him? Who is he to them?

Who is he to himself?)

The wind that had buffeted him up in the clouds is barely a breeze down on the ground, rippling and shifting through the grass across the manor grounds like a roaming ghost. Bruce allows himself just a moment of stillness, allows himself to stare out across what was once his home. 

Will he even be allowed in?

Next to him, Clark hovers just above the grass, silent but for the whisper of his breathing and the rhythm of his heart. Bruce closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath (smells the lilac bushes, thinks of brighter days) and lets it out in a long sigh. "Follow me."

And he sets out across the grounds. Almost all the way to the far side of them, there's a small thicket concealing an outcropping of rock. Within that, Bruce knows, is a narrow opening, leading into one of the Cave's many branching passages. It's a few minutes' worth of walking yet, but Clark doesn't remark on it, doesn't complain, doesn't even ask where they're going. Absently, Bruce wonders what Clark must be thinking right now—if only because it keeps him from dwelling long on the terrifying depth of trust Clark seems to have in him.

Eventually, the open grass succumbs to the shadow of the trees, to the twisting expanse of undergrowth that decades of pruning had done little to help. Not that Bruce had done much to discourage its growth, once he had a say; here, at the far edge of the perfectly manicured grounds of the Wayne estate, lies a gnarled patch of darkness that few have ever even bothered to notice. It's almost poetic.

Bruce pushes through the underbrush, pulls it aside so Clark can pass through before following him into the gloom. And here, now, he can feel again that familiar fear twisting in his chest, the smothering darkness of a wooden box. 

Breathe. In—hold—out. In—hold—out. The air is crisp and cold, bearing the thick smell of pine needles, fresh and, more importantly, alive. In—hold—out. In—hold—out. A facsimile of life, a facsimile of calm, but it does what he needs.

The gap in the rock is barely large enough for the average person to slip through. Bruce doesn't think about that. He simply pushes himself through, the same way he's done at least a hundred times before. It's fine. It's fine. It's—fine.

He feels Clark's hand on his shoulder and nearly jumps out of his goddamn skin.

"Can you see all right down here?" Clark asks softly. "I can go ahead, if you need."

"I can see just fine," Bruce says, and it's the bare truth; he can't see quite as vividly as in full light, but he can make out shapes clearly, which is more than enough to navigate the caverns here. He's been exploring them for years. This is fine. "Come on. It's a fairly straight walk back from here."

"Lead the way," Clark says. 

The passage opens up a few meters in, barely enough that they can walk side-by-side. Either Clark has some extra sense telling him when Bruce is ~~afraid~~  on edge, or else—somewhat more likely—the time they've known one another, coupled with the time they've spent in intimately close quarters, has left him more attuned to Bruce's shifts in mood, no matter how well he tries to hide it, even when the heartbeat he can't control isn't his own anymore. Clark's hand curls around Bruce's fingers regardless, solid and warm. And Bruce is grateful, though he won't say anything, grateful for something to focus on outside of the oppressive darkness, the smothering closeness of the walls. The heat of Clark's palm, the even beat of his heart, almost deafening in the silence of the caves. 

They don't speak. It's for the best, Bruce thinks—what is there to say that would be worth the risk of their voices echoing down the cavern, alerting whoever might be sitting at the other side to their presence?

Something cold twists in his chest at the realization of how instinctive it's already become for him to hide from his children. 

Eventually, the quiet gives way to the low hum of machinery, the faint rustling and chattering of the caverns' native bats. Bruce goes still, jaw tight and body taut as a bowstring. Beside him, Clark barely even breathes.

Ahead, Bruce hears the soft padding of footsteps too loud to be any of his children, the wrong pattern for any other biped. Which leaves only the dogs—and as if to confirm his suspicion, a low, concerned whine echoes down the passageway. 

Bruce doesn't move until the dog whines again, using the sound to mask his own footsteps.

"Hush." Bruce freezes, heart twisting in his chest. "We don't want Grayson knowing I've been digging through his case files, remember? Which means silence is of the utmost importance."

Bruce shuts his eyes. Distantly, he feels the weight of Clark's hand on his shoulder. 

The dog—Titus, it has to be Titus—lets out another soft whine, and falls silent. "Good boy."

For a moment, neither Bruce nor Clark move. The silence stretches on, and on, and on, until Bruce bows his head and lets out a sigh. He takes a step forward, and then another, and another. Clark's hand moves, resting on Bruce's wrist. Bruce doesn't shake him off.

Eventually, the pitch black of the passage fades into a pale red light. Bruce stops at the opening, watching, waiting. Clark's hand moves from Bruce's wrist to the small of his back, moving in small circles. Bruce puts out a hand, gesturing for him to move back into the dark. This is—he needs to be the first one his son sees. Above them, Damian sits in front of the main console, still in his pajamas, scowling up at the screens. 

Chest aching, Bruce takes a step forward.

Titus perks up. Damian's fingers on the keys go utterly still. His eyes flit towards the passage's opening, jaw tight. His heartbeat quickens, painfully loud in Bruce's ears.

Bruce takes another step. Damian vaults over the console, a batarang in hand one second and whistling through the air the next. Titus follows close after, the bass of his barking echoing off the Cave walls. Bruce ducks out of the way, dropping to a crouch.

The batarang buries itself in the cave wall behind where his throat had been less than a second before. Damian leaps forward, crashes into Bruce, a second batarang drawn and pressed to Bruce's throat. The blade pushes into flesh—the flesh gives, splits, but Bruce feels it first only as a pressure, and then an itch. No warm blood trickling down his throat, just the cold weight of titanium alloy in his neck and his own frightened child on his chest. 

(And he is frightened, frightened and angry and confused no matter how he tries to mask it.)

Titus is barking now, just this side of frantic. "How did you get in here?" Damian hisses through gritted teeth. He leans in, face twisted in a grimacing scowl as he scans Bruce's face. "Talk, or I swear I'll—" The batarang falls to the ground. Damian staggers back, eyes wide. "What are you?"

Bruce starts to push himself back up, but Damian's forearm is pressed up against his trachea faster than a thought. Letting out a breath, Bruce allows himself to be pushed back onto the ground. The Cave floor is cool against the back of his head.

"Don't," Damian snaps, "move. Talk."

Bruce shuts his eyes. "It's me, Damian," he says softly, barely audible over Titus's barking. "It's me. It's—it's your father."

"Do you think I'm stupid?" Damian says, voice shaking. "Whatever you are, you're not my father. My father is dead."

Bruce flinches, the words twisting in his chest as painfully as if Damian had slipped the batarang between his ribs instead. "Damian—"

"Shut up!" Damian presses down on harder Bruce's throat. It doesn't choke him—it can't, but Bruce falls silent again anyway. "Shut up, shut up." His lower lip is trembling. "You're not my father," he says again. "Tell me the truth, damn you."

Footsteps echo from behind with the soft crunch of boots against loose rock. Another batarang cuts through the air, only to ricochet harmlessly off of Clark's shoulder and clatter to the ground. (One day, Bruce will drill it into him properly that he needs to dodge things, for the love of—) "He is telling the truth," Clark says gently. 

Damian glowers up at him. "Stay back," he says. Clark holds up his hands, but otherwise doesn't move an inch. Damian tears his eyes away from Clark, brings his fury to bear on Bruce again. "How the hell did you trick the Kryptonian into believing you're him? Magic?"

Slowly, Bruce brings his hands up to his head, and tries to sit up again. "I didn't trick anyone," he says, barely louder than a whisper. "It's me, Damian. I can explain, if you'll let me."

Damian draws his arm back from Bruce's throat, just a fraction of an inch. "Talk," he commands. 

Bruce talks. Halting, at first, as he tries to explain the circumstances first of his death, and then of his resurrection. (He doesn't recount the whole story at the warehouse; only why he was there, that Clara had gotten her teeth into him, that he had stumbled home. That night is still too raw for him to touch, and Damian doesn't need to hear it.) He tries to be as honest as he can be—so he says that he doesn't remember dying, exactly, nor does he remember death itself—it was like waking up from a nightmare, from a sleep you don't remember lying down for. He tells Damian about meeting Dick, about the favor from Zatanna. He talks about the time he's spent living out of Clark's apartment, the night at the safehouse.

He doesn't talk about the hunger.

Through it all, Damian is still, his expression unreadable. He draws back, just enough, that Bruce can put a hand to his cheek, draw his thumb below Damian's eyelid to wipe away tears that aren't there.

"I wanted to come see you," Bruce whispers. His voice cracks, and he winces. "But—"

"Then why didn't you?" Damian demands, flinching back. 

Bruce shuts his eyes and bows his head. "I wanted to. I wanted to tell you I was alive, but I couldn't be sure what would happen, if I—" Every single excuse he's drawn up in his head sounds empty and cold. He presses his lips tightly together, draws in a breath to collect himself. "But that doesn't matter. I'm here now. I'm sorry, Damian." He reaches out, and Damian lets Bruce draw him up against his chest. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry."

Damian's shoulders are shaking. 

"I missed you," Bruce whispers. "All of you."

"I saw," Damian says, "I saw the body. When Pennyworth—" He falters, draws in a shaky breath.

"Shh," murmurs Bruce. "Shh, it's okay."

A loud thump reverberates through the Cave as Damian slams his fist down against Bruce's chest. He buries his face in Bruce's shirt, trembling in Bruce's arms. Bruce is silent as he holds his son, lets him vent his emotions however he needs. Damian slams his fist against Bruce's chest again, sucks in another desperate breath. "Why didn't you say anything?" he says. His voice breaks. 

Bruce turns his head to bury his face in the mess of Damian's hair. "I thought I was protecting you," he says. "Since I came back, I've had these—cravings. I thought that if there was a possibility I'd... hurt you. Or Dick, or Alfred, or—" 

Damian punches him again, weaker than before. "Stop it," he croaks. 

Bruce falls quiet again, silent but for the sound of his own breaths as he draws in the warm smell of—of life, young and good and so wholly undeserving of what Bruce has put him through.

Out of the corner of his eye, Bruce sees Clark crouch down next to them, resting a hand between Damian's shoulders. Damian swats him away before pushing at Bruce's chest until Bruce drops his arms to his sides. Drawing himself up to his full height, Damian glares down at his father, face splotched with red and streaked with tears. The sharp pain in Bruce's chest jerks, and he forces himself to feel it wholly. He brought this on himself, after all.

"I'm sorry," Bruce says again. "I should have come back sooner. I was—I was scared." He sits up on his knees, his vision blurring before he blinks away the sting in his eyes. Tentatively, Titus takes a few steps forward, noses his hand until Bruce strokes between his ears. "I want to come back here soon. Permanently. Then things can be normal again."

Damian screws his eyes shut. "When?"

Bruce hesitates. He reaches out, hand lingering just a hair's breadth from Damian's face for a few heartbeats, before drawing his thumb across Damian's cheek and wiping away a tear. Damian shakes, wiping his eyes and nose with his sleeve.

"I'm not sure," Bruce confesses. "When everyone's all right with my being here, I suppose." He manages a fraction of a smile. "Though I had a feeling you'd be the toughest to convince," he adds, "so maybe it'll be a little easier from here on out."

Damian opens his mouth to speak at exactly the same moment a door clicks shut. Titus perks up, looking towards the light spilling out from the far end of the Cave. Bruce doesn't dare to move, chest seizing at the muted footsteps against the stone floor. He glances sidelong at Clark, won't admit that it's easier than looking to see who's coming down those stairs.

"Don't bother pretending you're not down here, Master Damian." Bruce's chest feels as though it's on the brink of collapsing into itself. He screws his eyes shut. "I heard the commotion—"

Something clatters to the ground. Bruce glances up without thinking, even though he knows full well who he'll see. Alfred, in a dressing gown, mouth agape as he rushes down the steps.

"My God," Alfred breathes. In contrast to how he had nearly run down the stairs, he crosses the Cave slowly, wide-eyed, hand shaking as he reaches out. "Is it really...?"

Bruce forces himself to his feet. He tries to cross the gap between them, but his feet refuse to budge. When he swallows, it's like sand scraping down the inside of his throat. "It's me," he says. "It's—it's me."

Alfred draws in a shaking breath, his heart pounding so loud that Bruce worries for a moment that the shock has caused it to start failing, but when Alfred reaches out, his grip on Bruce's shoulders is as firm and sure as ever. He draws up a hand, his palm warm against Bruce's cheek.

"I thought..." Alfred hesitates, eyes going glassy as they flit across Bruce's features. "How? What in the hell happened to you?"

Bruce folds. He leans forward, tilts his head into Alfred's shoulder, loosely wrapping his arms around Alfred's ribs, hands balled into fists in the plush cotton of his robe. Alfred gives a small sound of surprise, hands stuck out awkwardly for a few seconds before they come to rest between Bruce's shoulders. 

"It's a long story," Bruce manages. He hears his voice break. 

Alfred's chuckle is faint in Bruce's ear, but warm. "I think I can spare a moment." He draws back, wipes at his eye with the heel of his palm. "You feel quite cold, Master Bruce. Perhaps we should take this upstairs."

* * *

Bruce isn't sure, exactly, how he ends up in the kitchen, or how he ends up with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders and a mug of hot tea cupped in his palms. The others gather around the granite island, silent, expectant. Damian has gathered his knees up to his chest, one arm wrapped around his leg while the other hand—judging by the soft sounds of a tail brushing across the floor—rubs between Titus's ears. Clark's pulled a stool up to sit on Bruce's left side, while Alfred, as ever, stands at his right.

His voice is raw as he recounts the story again. The tea doesn't help—doesn't do anything except taste just too bitter, leave a warmth in his stomach that fades as soon as it appears. (He should have brought the synthetic blood with him, he thinks as he starts to explain the hunger. The hunger, which has started to feel like a living entity in his thoughts. It's gone still since they've come here, but that doesn't mean he should become complacent. He refuses to let his family come to harm just because he has a lapse in vigilance.)

"Clark's been invaluable," Bruce says by way of conclusion, glancing at Clark sidelong. Clark's answering smile is so bright and warm that Bruce could swear it could purge the cold from him all on its own, to say nothing of the gentleness with which he wraps his fingers around Bruce's hand. "I don't want to think about what might have happened if he hadn't been there from the start."

"It would seem we all owe Mister Kent quite a debt," Alfred agrees. He doesn't sound angry at Bruce's silence, or his deception—he doesn't even sound as though he's pretending not to be. He sounds... exhausted. 

Maybe, after so many years, after burying three generations of Waynes, the stages of grief have coalesced into nothing more than a bone-deep weariness. The thought scares Bruce more than he cares to admit, even to himself—if it takes just a single lifetime of watching those you love die around you to become nothing but exhausting, then how is he meant to bear a millennium? Will he simply become numb to it, or will each loss pile up, one atop another atop another, until the weight of it all is too much for him to carry?

Bruce shuts his eyes and doesn't let himself follow that road again. 

"I take it you have some scheme already in the works that will allow you to take down this... family," Alfred continues, a faint grimace in his voice, as if the word family is genuinely repulsive in his mouth.

"I've been trying to put the pieces of one together," Bruce says, and braces himself.

"I'm coming with you," Damian says.

There it is. Bruce opens his eyes to meet Damian's, lips pressed into a thin line. "You will not," he says. 

"But Father—"

"No." On this, Bruce refuses to budge. How many times does he have to have this discussion before anyone listens to him? "None of you are getting any more involved in this than you already are."

"Father, they killed you," Damian insists, sitting up straight. There's a fire in his eyes now—one that Bruce knows all too well simply from looking in the mirror. "They killed you, and they need to pay for it. If you would just let me help—"

"I won't let you get killed or worse just because of your own need for vengeance," Bruce snaps. "This is my fight. Not yours."

Damian scoffs. "That's almost hilarious, coming from you," he says, folding his arms over his chest. "What, do you think you can just walk back there and take them on alone? Did dying make you stupid?"

Bruce grits his teeth. He is not going to let his barely pubescent son get a rise out of him. "We are not having this discussion here, Damian," he says. "As a matter of fact, we're not having this discussion at all. I'm telling you the same damn thing I told Dick: you can help by staying here, in the Manor, away from any point of the conflict, and looking into these—people. Help Dick dig up their history, help me catalog their vulnerabilities and my own." He takes a long drink of tea. It still doesn't help anything. "If and when there is a confrontation, you will not be present, and that is final."

A muscle in Damian's jaw twitches, but he doesn't offer up a retort. If he's honest, that troubles Bruce more than if he'd kept arguing—it isn't often that Damian capitulates so readily unless he's already planning an act of defiance. For a moment, they just glare at one another, until Damian finally loses the undeclared staring contest and scowls down at the table instead.

End of discussion, then, at least for now. Bruce allows himself to feel a momentary sense of relief.

"I, for one, am simply glad to see you alive and well, sir," Alfred says mildly. 

Bruce isn't about to tell him that he feels neither of those things. He's hurt this family enough as it is without dragging them into his spiral of self-loathing—God knows that making just Clark deal with his moodiness is bad enough. He takes another sip of tea, doesn't grimace at the taste. "It's good to see you too," he says. "Both of you."

Smiling, Alfred rests a hand on Bruce's shoulder, pulls the blanket a little more snugly around him. "By any chance, would it be too optimistic of me to prepare a room for you? Or two, as the case may be," he adds when Clark appears to have become afflicted by a spontaneous coughing fit. 

Bruce's instinct is to say no, that won't be necessary, that they should be going, he only wanted to finally break his silence—and then retreat, back to the quiet and safety of Metropolis. But now that that silence is broken, what point is there in retreat? To resupply his artificial blood, maybe, but past that... all of his resources are here, his family is here. There's no practical need to take advantage of Clark's generosity now.

That should be a relief, shouldn't it? Hadn't he hated being a burden, as much as Clark had insisted he wasn't? To say nothing of the fact that if he exiles himself here in Gotham, if he keeps to his Cave and only lets himself outside in the night, then the smell of him won't be a temptation any longer. And yet...

And yet.

Bruce sits back, draws the blanket even tighter around himself, and pointedly doesn't think about last night. "I'll stay the night," he says. "But I don't think a room will be necessary. I'll be down in the Cave anyway." That much, at least, will be a welcome return to normality. "I can't speak for Clark, of course."

Clark clears his throat, rubbing at the back of his neck. "I, uh—I don't want to be a bother," he says, a little weakly.

"It's no trouble at all, Mister Kent," Alfred says, eyes crinkling. "If you must, consider it a debt repaid, for taking care of him while he was... in a mood, as it were."

The stool creaks as Clark shifts. "I can't stay too long," he says, his voice tinted with regret. "I'll have to be at work first thing in the morning. But far be it from me to refuse your hospitality," he adds hurriedly. "I'd love to spend the night. It'll be nice to stay over under—nicer circumstances than last time."

Bruce does his level best not to wince at that. _Nicer circumstances_  than, he assumes, Bruce's own funeral. One day, maybe, he'll feel he's made up for the pain that his death has caused. He knows without voicing it what any of them would say—that feeling guilt for something like dying is ridiculous, or unproductive, or stupid—but coming back to see the aftermath so soon leaves a needle-sharp pain in his heart. 

Had the change taken longer, months instead of days, then perhaps they would have moved on. The world would have turned without him, and he could have, maybe, taken his time slotting himself back into the family without hurting them further.

"I'll prepare a room for you, then," Alfred says. He pats Clark on the shoulder as he passes by, before casting a significant glance towards Damian. "In the meantime, I seem to recall asking you to be in bed several hours ago."

Damian huffs as he hops off the stool. He mutters something to the effect of _just as bad as Grayson_  before skulking past Bruce—and Bruce can't let their discussion simply end on the note it did. Bruce reaches out, rests a hand, just barely, on Damian's shoulder. 

"Hey."

For a few seconds, Damian doesn't look at him, keeping his eyes fixed to the floor. Bruce pulls himself off of his seat, crouching at his son's side. 

"Damian," Bruce says quietly. He hears Clark's own seat scrape across the floor, hears his footsteps leaving the room. He'll—he'll find a way, and a time, to thank Clark for that later. "I want you to know something," he says. 

Damian finally meets his eyes then, his expression guarded.

"I'm not sidelining you because I don't think you can handle yourself," Bruce continues. "You've proven yourself time and time again to be more than capable. This is..." He falters, just for a second. "This is for my peace of mind, more than anything else. What's happened to me, I don't know if I would wish on some of my worst enemies. The thought of it happening to you, or anyone else in the family, is more than I can stomach." He brings his hand up, strokes back Damian's hair. "This isn't about what I think you can and can't do, trust me. If this were any other mortal lunatic, I would want you to have my back." 

Bruce draws a long, slow breath, brings his hands to rest on Damian's shoulders. "I'm proud of you, Damian. Don't you ever forget that."

When Bruce draws Damian in this time, there's no resistance. Damian fists his hands in the back of Bruce's shirt with an unwavering grip, and holds onto Bruce as tightly as he possibly can. Bruce shuts his eyes, burying his nose in his son's shoulder, and wills time to stop, just for this moment.

And maybe it does. The seconds seem to slow even as they turn to minutes, and—nothing happens. Damian's heart pounds, and then slows, until it's a steady, almost metronomic beat. His breathing, too, grows slow and shallow—and when Bruce dares to draw back, his eyes are closed. Unable to hold back a smile, Bruce is as careful, as gentle as he can be as he gathers Damian up in his arms to carry him to bed.

Damian doesn't stir. Not when Bruce lays him down on the mattress, not when he draws the covers up over him, and—presumably—not even when Bruce closes the door. When Bruce turns, Clark is there at the end of the hall, leaning against the wall with a fond smile teasing the corners of his mouth before he breaks into a full, dimpling grin. He takes a few steps forward, crossing the hall until Bruce is within arm's reach, before tipping up Bruce's chin and kissing him gently.

Bruce waits for an _I told you so_  that doesn't come. Clark opens his mouth to say something, but whatever it is gets lost at the sound of the doorbell ringing. 

The doorbell, at two o'clock in the goddamn morning. Bruce draws back, frowning. He moves towards the end of the hall before he remembers himself, remembers that he's supposed to be dead and that even in Gotham, a corpse answering Wayne Manor's front door would draw in some unwanted attention. 

Thankfully, as ever, Alfred is there to save his skin. Bruce listens as the front door opens, as Alfred takes in a quick breath.

"Evening," drawls a familiar voice, rough from a lifetime of chain-smoking. "I heard there was some business about a vampire mafia."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMBOY.
> 
> Thanks, as ever, to the eternally fantastic KathrynShadow for her beta-work. (Sidebar: if you haven't read her DC stuff also, what the heck is even, go do that right now it'll be a week at least before I write another chapter anyway and she's Freaking Good and you won't regret it.)
> 
> Questions, comments, ~~did I make you cry even a little~~ concerns? Hit me up over @lordvitya on Tumblr. :^D

**Author's Note:**

> (Belatedly-added note:) Huge thanks to the ever-wonderful KathrynShadow for betaing and letting me scream at her about weird vampire mythology for a week straight, and to all the lovely people who have commented so far! This being my first foray into writing for DC fandom, I was a tad nervous, but y'all have been lovely. :D
> 
> As ever, if you wanna yell my way, you can find me on Tumblr @lordvitya. I love you all. <3


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